Page 23 of Fractured Loyalties
“Do you live here or the other house?”
“No one lives here.” His voice is quieter now. “Not usually.”
I step inside. The door closes behind me.
The air shifts when the door seals behind us. It’s not fear that curls in my chest—it’s expectation. A breath held between decisions.
Elias moves past me, his gait silent on the hardwood, fluid and exact, like every gesture costs energy he refuses to waste. He says nothing. Doesn’t rush me. Just walks deeper into the house like he already knows I’ll follow.
And I do.
The entry opens into a long, sunken living room. Modern furniture in matte gray leather. A fire flickers low in the hearth, already lit. No TV. No art. Just floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean, framed by sheer drapes that ripple even with no breeze. It’s…beautiful. But sterile. Like a place meant to be seen, not lived in.
I trail him into the kitchen. Slate counters. Stainless steel. A knife block gleaming under underlighting. The faucet doesn’t have a single water mark. Neither do the dishes.
“This place doesn’t look used,” I say quietly.
“It isn’t. Not really.”
“Then why bring me here?”
He opens a cabinet, pulls down a glass, fills it with water from a filtered tap. He sets it on the counter in front of me without answering. Only when I meet his gaze does he say, “Because it’s safe.”
Safe.
The word lands hard in my chest. He means well. I think. But there’s something about him that doesn’t feel built for comfort. He’s not soft. Not gentle. Not warm. And yet… he hasn't looked away from me once.
My hand shakes slightly as I pick up the glass. “You always this prepared?”
“I try to be.”
“You knew I’d need this.”
“Yes.”
His honesty is a strange kind of kindness. No performance. Just fact.
I take a sip, then set the glass down carefully. “What now?”
“Now, you breathe. You sleep. You stay here until I’m sure he’s gone.”
“And then?”
Elias watches me. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is low and firm. “Then you decide what you want. Not what he left you. Not what fear chooses for you.”
There’s a beat of silence. And then he adds, “And if that includes me…I won’t pretend I don’t want that.”
My heart stutters.
It’s not the confession itself. It’s the steadiness of it. No pressure. No demand. Just gravity. Like he’s naming something inevitable.
I look away. My skin feels too tight.
The air between us doesn’t cool, even after I walk past him. I feel Elias’s presence behind me like gravity, like breath on the back of my neck.
He says nothing as I explore the rest of the space. A hallway, muted gray. Another room—smaller, likely a guest suite. Then I find the room he must have meant for me. Cream bedding. Crisp, but not sterile. A window facing the sea, the sky already bruising violet with the first hint of dusk.
“I’ll give you space,” he says from the doorway.
