Page 198 of Fractured Loyalties
I feel the heat rise in my chest, sharper than fear. “You mean you’re not giving me the choice.”
We stand there, the space between us shrinking until I can see the fine shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tight set of his mouth. His eyes don’t waver. Neither do mine.
“Do what you want,” I say finally. “But not with me here.”
I turn and head for the bedroom that’s supposed to be mine. I suddenly don’t want to be anywhere close to this life anymore; it feels like my personal life is slipping away. My bag is still where I left it. I zip it shut, sling it over my shoulder, and walk back into the living room.
Jori is leaning on the table, Kinley standing close to him, watching but not speaking. Lydia looks up from her phone but doesn’t move.
Elias’s gaze follows me to the door. “Lydia,” he says, “stay with her.”
I don’t answer. The night air outside bites against my face as I call for a cab, my fingers steady even though my pulse isn’t. When the headlights sweep the curb, I climb in without looking back.
The cab smells like cheap cologne and coffee grounds. The driver doesn’t speak, just taps on his GPS and hums something low under his breath. I lean my head against the window, the glass cold and slick with fog. Outside, the city moves like it never stopped—drunk kids laughing too loud on sidewalks, traffic lights bleeding red into the wet asphalt, the constant, restless pulse of people who don’t know anything’s changed.
My apartment looks the same from the outside. Quiet, plain, tucked behind a row of forgettable brick units. Safe, in that way things can be when no one notices them.
I swipe the key and step inside.
The air smells like nothing. No Elias. No blood. No disinfectant or leather or gunmetal weight pressing against my spine. Just the faint scent of the candle I forgot to blow out the last time I left. It’s long since burned to the wick.
I set my bag down and just stand there. The floor’s cool under my shoes. My plants are still alive—barely. The framed photo on the counter still turned face-down. I don’t fix it.
The quiet should feel like relief.
Instead, it feels like stepping into a house that was never really mine.
I strip off my clothes and leave them in a trail to the bathroom. The shower is hot, too hot. I scrub until the skin along my ribs stings, until the knot in my stomach doesn’t feel like it might strangle me in my sleep.
When I climb into bed, the sheets feel too soft. The silence presses in. I close my eyes.
I don’t sleep.
By morning, my eyes burn from the inside. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have for a little while. There’s light in the room—gray, filtered through blinds, uncommitted. The kind of morning light that doesn’t ask for anything. It just arrives.
I pull on clothes. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers. Simple. Functional. Nothing that clings or suggests anything about the skin underneath. I braid my hair back tight. No lipstick. No earrings. Just the plain silver ring I always twist when I’m trying not to fall apart.
The street smells like rain. I don’t remember if it rained.
At the clinic, Celeste is already at the front desk. She looks up when I walk in and—just like always—her expression doesn’t change much. But the way her hand pauses slightly over her tablet is enough.
“I didn’t expect you today,” she says.
I shrug, keeping my voice neutral. “It felt like a waste to stay home.”
Celeste nods, but her eyes scan me like she’s checking vitals. She doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask about Elias. Just gestures toward the coffee machine. “Alec’s in surgery. He’ll want to check in later.”
I nod and move past her, grateful for the reprieve.
Everything in the clinic gleams like it’s been freshly cleaned. Like they’re expecting company.
Even the air smells different.
It takes me a moment to realize what it is.
They’ve installed a new security system—new locks, discreet cameras, reinforced glass at the reception desk. Alec’s way of saying: We know and we understand. Without forcing me to explain anything elaborately.
I find comfort in that. Not in the security itself, but in the quiet acknowledgment.
