Page 31 of Fractured Loyalties
When I lean into him, it's not surrender. It's gravity. The weight of everything unsaid pulling me toward the only steady thing in the room. He doesn't speak, doesn't question—just lifts me as if the choice was already made. His hold is sure, careful. Not possession. Not rescue. Just something in between.
His arms are steady, but my thoughts aren't.
The air inside the room is warmer than the hall, a subtle shift I only notice because everything else feels stark. The scent of him clings to my skin—not cologne, not sweat. Something darker. Subtle. Like cedar and something colder underneath, like iron.
He sets me down on the bed like he’s afraid I might crack.
I don’t.
I sit upright as soon as the mattress catches me, legs crossed, hands folded. Too composed. Too neutral. Like I’m trying not to leave any fingerprints on this moment.
Elias kneels briefly in front of the small trunk at the end of the bed and pulls out a folded blanket. Wool. Gray. He offers it to me without a word.
"Thanks," I say. My voice is too quiet.
He nods, but doesn’t move to leave. Not yet.
I watch him. Or try to. The light in here is soft—not dim, just enough to keep his face partly in shadow.
Everything in this house is deliberate. I’m starting to realize that. He doesn’t live in clutter or distraction. There’s not a single thing out of place.
Except maybe me.
I adjust the blanket across my lap, suddenly cold.
Elias speaks. "If you want me to go, I will."
I don't answer right away. I know what the smart thing to do is. Ask him to leave. Shut the door. Sleep alone.
But the word won’t come. Because I don’t want to be alone. Not now. Not when the truth of who he is pulses just beneath my skin, sharp and live, like an exposed wire too near water.
"No," I say finally. "Stay. Just not…there. Not on the bed."
His eyes flick to the lounge chair in the corner. Without a word, he crosses the room and sits.
We both listen to the silence until it stops feeling like a test.
I breathe in slowly.
Then I say the one thing that’s been sitting on my chest like a stone since he first touched me. "I don't know if I trust you yet."
His gaze doesn’t waver. "I wouldn't trust me either."
He says it without apology. Without shame. Just fact.
And that, weirdly, makes it worse.
He doesn’t ask why I wanted him to stay.
He doesn’t shift or fidget or attempt to fill the quiet with idle comfort. He just sits there, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, the way someone might if they were settling in for a chess match—or a confession.
I should be the one sleeping. Or at least trying to. But instead, I find myself curled under the blanket with my back against the headboard, eyes fixed on him like I’m afraid he’ll vanish if I blink.
“I’m scared,” I say. And it’s the most honest thing I’ve spoken since I arrived.
“I know.”
“I don’t think it’ll ever stop.”
