Page 43 of Fractured Allegiance
The question hangs.
I keep my face neutral. "She's efficient."
"Efficient." Drazen repeats the word like he's tasting it, deciding if he likes the flavour. Then he leans back, eyes narrowing with something close to amusement. "You know what I've noticed, Silas? You look at her differently than you look at everyone else."
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
He sees it. Of course he does.
"It's subtle," he continues, almost conversational. "The way you track her across a room. The way you hesitate half a second too long when she speaks. Most people wouldn't catch it." His grin widens. "But I'm not most people."
I say nothing. There's nothing safe to say.
"I don't blame you," Drazen adds, like he's being generous. "She's magnetic. That's why she's valuable. But here's the thing—" He sets his glass down with deliberate precision. "—she's myasset. And men who let themselves get distracted by my assets tend to make mistakes. Fatal ones."
The threat isn't subtle.
"I'm not distracted," I say, voice level.
"Good." He stands, buttoning his coat with slow, measured movements. "Because if I thought you were losing focus, I'd have to reconsider whether you're the right fit for this operation. And we wouldn't want that, would we?"
He doesn't wait for an answer.
He just walks toward the door, pausing only to glance back once.
"She's a tool, Silas. Sharp, effective, expensive. But still just a tool. Remember that."
The door closes behind him.
And I sit there, hands curled into fists under the table, hating how right he is about what he saw—and how wrong he is about what she is.
I should go back to the apartment. Recalibrate my approach. That's what a good agent would do.
Instead, I step out into the night.
The city air hits me cold and sharp.
My feet move before my brain catches up, carrying through alleys I know too well, past intersections I've memorized for extraction routes.
I tell myself I'm clearing my head.
I tell myself I'm doing a routine surveillance sweep.
I tell myself a lot of things that aren't true.
By the time I realize where I'm going, I'm already climbing the fire escape two blocks from her building. The metal groans under my weight, rust flaking onto my palms, but I don't stop.
Minutes later, I'm on the rooftop across from her apartment, crouched behind the chimney stack like I have any right to be here.
Her window glows warm against the dark.
And I can't look away.
She’s pacing.
Lydia’s barefoot, her heels discarded near the couch. One strap from her dress has slipped down her arm. She hasn’t noticed. Or doesn’t care. A tumbler swings in her hand, half-full of something amber. There’s tension in the way she moves—tight, coiled, like her skin doesn’t fit right.
Her hair’s down now. Messier than she’d ever allow in public. But she doesn’t fix it, doesn’t even touch it. She just walks back and forth, her free hand twitching like she’s looking for something to hold onto.
