Page 243 of Fractured Allegiance
Elias doesn’t waste words. “Jax, take the prisoner to the basement. Ren, perimeter.”
They nod, pale and twitchy. They almost lost it back at Bellamy, and if Drazen’s men so much as breathe near this door, they’ll lose it again.
Lydia doesn’t even look at them. She’s at the table, her hair pulled back into a knot, unveiling streaks of grime on her jaw. She’s got dried blood at her temple where a splinter caught her, but when Mara moves towards her with gauze, Lydia waves her off.
“I’m fine.”
Her tone leaves no space for argument. Mara, to her credit, only tilts her head once, then lays the gauze on the table in case she changes her mind.
I’m standing across the room, but my eyes keep tracking back to Lydia. The way her shirt clings from sweat, the scrape along her wrist where Jori’s hand had been before Elias put a bullet in him. She should look broken. Instead, she looks carved out of stone.
My hands are a mess: knuckles raw, one split open deep enough to sting when I curl my fist. I clean them anyway, pouring whiskey over the torn skin, watching it swirl a ruddy pink into the basin.
When I glance up, she’s watching me too. The second I catch her, she looks away. But it isn’t quick enough. It had already been long enough to see the steel in her eyes, the defiance that hasn’t dimmed an inch. Her attention, all mine.
I cross the space before I think better of it. She doesn’t move, even when my thumb brushes the streak of dirt from her cheekbone. Doesn’t soften either, but I’ve never needed that from her. I can take her, any way she lets me have her. It’s enough, even this: how she stubbornly holds my stare, daring me to say something I can’t take back.
The tension splits the space like a live wire.
And then, of fucking course, Elias ruins it.
“Come,” he says, stepping out from the shadow of the kitchen, his voice flat as a hammer. “Our guest is waiting.”
I don’t ask who. I know. The one we dragged from Bellamy, half-conscious in the back of the SUV. Drazen’s man. Now chained up downstairs like a rat.
The tension in the room shifts. Mara exhales, slow, setting her hands on her hips. Elias doesn’t look at her, but I catch theflicker of it—the way his shoulders ease a fraction when she’s near him. The kind of thing a man like him never admits. How strange, that even a man as infamous as Elias Voss wears his weakness so plainly for all to see. Mara is who matters to him, truly.
With a heavy sigh, I step back from Lydia, my hand dropping away. I roll my sore knuckles once. “I’ll take him.”
Elias studies me like he’s already measuring the body count I’ll rack up if he lets me. Then he nods once. “Don’t get carried away. I need him to talk, not choke on his own teeth.”
I don’t bother answering. My rage has been simmering since Bellamy, since Jori’s gun swung toward my spine. Since Lydia threw herself into the line of fire to stop him.
Now, finally, I have somewhere to put it.
I head for the basement door, each step heavier than the last. The handle turns without resistance, and I start down, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the dark below.
The single bulb at the bottom flickers against the ceiling, casting light that’s more shadow than clarity.
There, Drazen’s man sits slumped against the support beam, wrists chained above his head, ankles bound tight enough that he couldn’t kick even if he tried. His face is swollen; one eye split purple, lip torn, a line of blood dried along his chin. Somebody got a head start. Probably Jax, when he brought him in here, he probably didn’t cooperate well enough
The prisoner’s head lifts when he hears my footsteps. There’s a smile in it, teeth cracked and pink with blood. It’s not defiance. It’s recognition.
“Ward,” he rasps, my name dragging like gravel across his tongue. “Drazen said you’d come with them to Bellamy. Predictable.”
I stop at the base of the stairs, weight settling heavy in my stance. Hearing my name from him doesn’t sting. It confirms what I already know: Drazen’s closer than we thought.
I pull the knife from my belt, spin it once in my hand, not for show but for feel. The metal fits against my palm like an old habit. I step forward slowly, each footstep loud in the stillness.
“You’ve got three good teeth left,” I say, voice flat. “Which one do you want to keep?”
He chuckles. A wet sound, broken, like his lungs can’t quite keep up. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
“No,” I answer, crouching until the knife’s edge rests against the soft inside of his thigh. The point doesn’t press hard, just enough for him to feel it’s bite. “I think you’re afraid of dying without Drazen’s name in your mouth. So I’ll give you the chance to say it.”
His smirk falters. Not much, but enough.
Behind me, I hear the stairs creak. Elias. He doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t need to. I don’t look back, but I feel his presence settle into the room like a shadow in its rightful place.
