Page 212 of Fractured Loyalties
The door to my office slams behind me, echoing too loud against the glass halls. I don’t slow. The elevator is waiting, doors reflecting my face back at me—calm on the surface, teeth grinding underneath. The descent is fast, my reflection twitching as the floor numbers blink past.
The garage smells of oil and heat. My car waits where I left it, black paint shining under overhead lights. The engine ignites with a rumble that settles through my chest, steadying me more than any deep breath ever could.
I take the turn hard out of the garage, tires hissing against the ramp. The city unfolds in front of me, sun pinned high over glass towers, streets brimming with the rhythm of lives too blind to notice what moves under their feet. I weave through them, each block collapsing under speed until the waterline creeps into view.
The clinic sits against the coast, framed by gulls and salt air. Polished windows. Whitewashed stone. From a distance, it looks like a sanctuary, all clean edges and careful lines. But I know better. Inside, scars walk the halls. Fear hides in the corners. And now Caleb has brought rot to its doorstep.
I cut the engine in front of the main entrance, not bothering with the lot. The guard stationed near the doors notices me instantly. His spine straightens, eyes flicking from my car to my face. He doesn’t know my name, but he recognizes weight when it steps out of a vehicle.
Inside, the reception hums with restrained order. Phones ringing, the faint hiss of machines, shoes crossing the floor. But beneath it, something fractured lingers—eyes turning too fast, a nervous pause in movements. They’ve already felt what happened here.
She’s here. I know it without seeing her.
Then my gaze locks.
Mara is near the desk, papers still clutched in her hand like she couldn’t decide whether to drop them or keep pretending nothing happened. Her hair is braided tight, face pale but carved sharp with defiance. She’s standing too still, though. A stillness that reads like glass stretched thin.
Our eyes meet. The paper slips from her grip, scattering across the counter.
Celeste is beside her, speaking in a tone too measured to be casual. Alec hovers behind the desk, eyes narrowing as he tracks me. Both of them shift without moving, their postures screaming what they don’t voice: You’re not welcome here.
I don’t break stride.
Mara’s lips part, a protest building, but I cut it off before it forms. “You’re coming with me.”
The reception freezes. Celeste’s expression hardens, but she doesn’t speak yet. Alec does. “Not your call.”
I shift my attention to him, then back to Mara. “He was here. Caleb. You think I’m leaving you standing in the open for him to circle back?”
Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter, whitening her knuckles. “I can handle myself.”
“You proved that once,” I answer. “Once isn’t enough.”
Celeste finally cuts in, voice even but sharp. “Mara is safe here. We upgraded our systems. Security is doubled. You should know that.”
I take a step closer, narrowing the space between Mara and me. Her pulse flickers at her throat, too fast for the mask she’s trying to hold. I lower my voice, pitched only for her. “You really believe cameras and guards will stop him? You think locks keep out men like him?”
Her eyes falter, just for a second. That’s all I need.
“I’m not asking, Mara. You’re leaving with me.”
Celeste tilts her head slightly, studying me like I’m another case file. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I already did,” I answer.
Alec moves from behind the desk, blocking half the space between us. His shoulders are squared, a surgeon’s precision in the way he plants his stance. He’s not a fighter, but he’d play one if he thought it would stop me.
“This is her place of work,” he says, clipped. “She belongs here. With people who actually respect her boundaries.”
Mara doesn’t move. Her silence is worse than their resistance. She’s gripping the counter like it’s the only anchor left.
I close the final steps until I’m at her side. She breathes in sharp when I brush the edge of her hand with mine. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for me.
“You can stay here,” I murmur, low enough to stay between us, “and wait for him to come again. Or you can walk out now, with me, and know he’ll never get that close a second time.”
Her chest rises too fast. She wants to argue—her mouth even opens—but Celeste cuts across the moment.
“You think possession equals protection,” she says. “It doesn’t.”
