Page 22 of Fractured Loyalties
I burst out onto the sidewalk—and slam straight into a wall of muscle.
A man.
Elias.
He grabs my arms just as I start to scream. “It’s me,” he says, calm and quiet, but not soft.
I stare up at him, breath tearing through me, hands shaking.
He looks behind me once. His whole posture changes. “Get in the car.”
“What—?”
“Now.”
The tone in his voice leaves no room for argument.
He steers me toward a black sedan I hadn’t noticed—parked half a block down, engine already running.
My legs move before my brain does.
He opens the door, pushes me gently inside, then rounds to the driver’s side. He slides in, and he locks the doors.
When he speaks again, his voice is steel. “Was he following you?”
I nod. “I think so. I—I don’t know. I panicked.”
“I know.”
The car peels away from the curb.
In the rearview, there’s no one. Just fog.
Elias doesn’t speak again until we’ve left the town behind. The car hums over the two-lane road, trees rising like sentinels on either side. The fog clings to the windshield in thick curls, glowing faintly in the halo of the headlights. I watch his hands on the steering wheel—calm, sure, unshakable. His profile is cut from shadow and discipline.
“Where are we going?” I ask finally, voice raw.
“Somewhere no one can follow.”
The road winds tighter. A sign flashes past: PRIVATE ACCESS. Elias doesn’t slow. My phone buzzes in my coat. I check it—one missed call from Celeste, a text from Alec:Just checking in. You left quick this evening—everything all right?
I silence it.
We turn onto a gravel path flanked by tall hedges. Beyond them, the ocean murmurs. The car dips into a slight incline, tires crunching over crushed stone. Then the house appears.
It’s not a mansion. But it feels like one. Low, wide, all steel and wood and glass. Secluded. Elegant. Dangerous in how precisely it doesn’t try to impress. He kills the engine and looks over.
“We’re here.”
I follow him up the walkway, heart drumming too loud in my ears. He unlocks the front door and steps aside for me to enter first.
Inside, the air is warm. Clean. It smells faintly of cedar and something richer—amber, maybe, or smoke. The lighting is soft, gold-washed across polished floors. Every object is in its place. No clutter. No distraction. Just stillness crafted like art.
I hesitate at the threshold. He waits.
“This is yours too?”
He nods once.
