Page 229 of Fractured Allegiance
“No,” Silas says, finally turning to face him. “But you’re not running me either.”
The two of them stand locked in silence, and I feel it like static against my skin. I should step in, but I don’t. I let it hang, because the truth is—I like watching Silas push Elias. Nobody else ever does. Not even me.
Elias finally snatches the list, glances at it, then tosses it aside. “Fine. But don’t expect a goddamn parade when it shows up.”
Silas’s eyes slide back to me, and for just a second, the whole room falls away. He doesn’t say a word, but the corner of that list burned itself into my mind.
He thought of me.
And Elias saw it too.
He pretends he’s not still chewing over the additions Silas slipped in, but I know him too well. His silence is a blade, and he’s choosing where to sink it.
We end up back at the table. Elias pulls out an old folder stuffed with maps and printouts and spreads them wide. Silas takes the seat opposite me, hands loose on the table, his stare steady, unflinching.
“Drazen’s not just reacting,” Elias says, stabbing a finger against the city map. “He’s setting up for something. Petrov Station’s been flagged twice in the last week. Warehousing contracts in fake names, trucks in and out at night. Too quiet.”
“Let’s look at this carefully.” Silas says, “Maybe he knows you’re watching his fronts. If Petrov Station is hot, it could be because he wants you to think it is.”
“Or,” I say, leaning in, “it’s because he thinks we’ll be too afraid to walk into it. He knows how to use bait. Doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
Their eyes both land on me. For once, I don’t shrink under it.
Elias exhales. “You really want to walk into his trap?”
I hold his stare. “This is my cage. I get decide how to destroy it.”
The words hang heavy, and for a second I swear I see the ghost of pride flicker in Elias’s expression before it shutters closed.
Silas’s burner buzzes against his hip.
He doesn’t reach for it, not right away, but I see him go rigid. When he finally drags it out, he palms the screen like he’s hiding contraband. A code flashes across the display. Not a message. A signal.
I lean forward. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he says too fast, sliding the phone back into his pocket.
My nails dig into the table. He won’t even look at me. Elias doesn’t miss it. I watch as his smirk deepens, but he doesn’t say a word.
The sound of the front door opening saves me from snapping. Footsteps. Keys tossed in a dish. A familiar female voice calling, “Elias?”
Mara.
She walks into the kitchen wearing a pale blue dress, hair tied back in a knot that looks effortless but probably took minutes in a fogged bathroom mirror. She smells like antiseptic and lavender lotion, a strange softness against the steel in this room.
The faint tiredness of a full day’s work etched under her eyes. She spots me first, her face softening. “Hi, Lydia.” Relief threads through her tone.
Then her gaze shifts to Silas. Her brow arches. “And this must be the infamous one.”
Silas rises, polite enough to incline his head but not enough to offer a smile. “Silas Ward.”
Mara studies him like she’s checking a patient’s chart. Not intimidated. Just assessing. Then she looks at me again, quiet warmth in her eyes. “You holding up okay?”
I nod, though my throat is tight. “I’m managing.”
She crosses to Elias, presses her free hand to his arm. He covers it with his own, just for a second, and the tension in the room eases, not gone, but reshaped into something quieter, and more private.
And sitting across from Silas, feeling his stare like a weight I can’t shake, I can’t help noticing the difference. Elias has Mara’s steady touch grounding him. Silas has nothing but me—and the way he looks at me makes it clear he doesn’t want grounding. He wants fire.
