Page 35 of Fractured Allegiance
I finally shift my weight, push up to stand. My legs feel too tight. My skin is too loose.
It hits me all at once, the kind of vertigo that doesn’t ask permission. The room tilts sideways, my hand misses the edge of the window frame, and then I’m not standing anymore.
I don’t remember going down.
Just the sound of my glass tipping, the thud of the couch against my shoulder, and an intense flare behind my eyes like a camera flash I didn’t ask for.
When I blink again, the light in the room is different.
Thinner.
Later.
The clock on the wall clicks past 2:00 PM.
I sit up too fast and feel it again, my body loose, my lungs sluggish, not with panic or fear, but with that sinking drop that comes when the wall I’ve been denying finally stops me cold.
I don’t trust hospitals.
But I trust Mara’s people: Celeste. Alec.
In a haze, I pick up my phone and send a text to Mara.
Then, I move to the bathroom, rinse my mouth out at the sink. Pull on jeans and a long cardigan that hides most of the bruising under my ribs — the kind you don’t see unless you know where to press. My bag feels heavier than usual, like my Glock knows I’m running low on muscle to carry it.
I head out.
The clinic sits on the north side of Miramont, wedged between a high-end pharmacy and an antique gallery that never has the same owner twice. From the outside, It looks almost too polished, all frosted glass and silver trim. A logo that means everything and nothing.
But I trust this place more than any hospital.
Because Celeste Varon built it.
And Alec Rennick guards it.
And Mara… Mara breathes inside its walls like she might never have been broken.
I step through the main doors and the room itself seems to shift. Cooler, cleaner, and laced with the scent of eucalyptus and something more biting underneath; antiseptic, maybe, or the subtle hum of focus.
The receptionist looks up. It’s not one I recognize. New, maybe. But she doesn’t flinch at my name.
“Lydia Carr,” I say simply.
She nods and taps a few keys. “Mara’s expecting you.”
Of course she is.
I pass the clean-lined couches, the glass-paneled conference room, the curated art that doesn’t look curated. All of it was chosen for calm. None of it was chosen by accident.
Celeste appears at the end of the corridor, clipboard in hand, reading something with the kind of still precision that makes her look like she’s carving the space around her.
Her eyes flick up as I approach. “Lydia.”
“Celeste.” I nod. “You look…”
“Awake?”
I smile. “I was going to say dangerous. But that works too.”
