Page 47 of Fractured Allegiance
But tonight, I want the edge taken off.
The first sip burns, but I don’t flinch. I welcome it.
I turn toward the window. I don’t open the curtain. I just stand there, the weight of the glass close enough to lean against. My reflection watches me, hollow-eyed and barefoot, hair mussed like I’ve been running from something.
Maybe I have.
Outside, Miramont glows like it’s bleeding light. There’s no moon tonight—just the skeletal shine of high-rises, streetlamps, and the smog-soft haze that settles over the city like resignation.
And somewhere out there, I feel it.
Him.
Not just Dom, not Drazen.
Silas.
I don’t see him. But my skin tightens like he’s watching. Like there’s a line drawn between us, and even if I can't trace it with my fingers, it still tugs.
He didn’t speak to me at the club. Not directly. Not really. But his absence of words said too much. That calm, predatory stillness. That almost-respectful kind of threat.
He knows.
Not everything. But enough.
I close my eyes.
And for half a second, I wish he’d come to my door.
That’s the part that scares me more than anything.
The glass still sweats in my hand. The second sip goes down easier, not because the burn fades, but because I’ve started to like it.
I should go to bed.
But my body resists anything that looks like surrender.
Instead, I pull the curtain back just enough to look.
The street is empty.
Of course it is.
But my eyes search anyway, along the edges of the alley, the rooftops across the street, the places most people forget to check.
Nothing.
Still, I feel it. The pressure behind the emptiness.
Like something unseen breathing just a little too close.
I don’t know if I want him there, or if I want proof that I’m still in control. The worst part is how closely those two things bleed into each other.
The bourbon’s nearly gone. I set the glass on the windowsill and walk away before I start believing it’s company.
Back in the bedroom, I change into a silk camisole. The slinky black fabric is barely a whisper across my skin. It’s ironic, adorning myself like this. Yet, when I sit on the edge of the bed, I trace the scar beneath my collarbone. It’s small, old, mostly faded… but it’s mine. A reminder of when I learned that loyalty has teeth. That trust is forever a rose with a serpent beneath its petals.
Voss gave me the first scar.
