Page 55 of Fractured Allegiance
“You didn’t say you’d stop me, either.”
Her mouth twitches like she hates that I noticed.
I step forward, slow and measured.
And cross the threshold.
Her apartment is warm, not in temperature, but in the kind of lived-in hum that clings to walls. Sparse furniture. Everything purposeful. Nothing soft for softness’ sake. No throw pillows. No framed photos. No trace of someone else's touch.
Just her.
The floors are hardwood, dark and clean. A thin black coat is draped across the back of a chair by the window. One of her stilettos is tipped on its side beneath the small glass coffee table. There’s a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the kitchen counter, beside a single used glass.
I don’t speak.
Neither does she.
The door clicks shut behind me, and in that instant, the space between us shifts—not with tension, but with a friction that feels like flint meeting steel.
Lydia walks ahead of me. She’s barefoot, her hair slightly mussed, the silk of her robe catching the light from the far lamp. She is a vision, even when she doesn't turn around to see if I’m following.
She knows I am.
She stops at the edge of the living room and turns to face me, arms crossed. The robe dips as her weight shifts to one side.
“I didn’t invite you,” she says, but her voice is steady.
“You didn’t stop me, either.”
“I wanted to see what you’d do.”
“And?”
“I haven’t decided what it means yet.”
She’s testing me. Not for weakness. For intent.
I stay where I am. Just far enough not to crowd her. Just close enough to be undeniable.
My gaze slips past her to the untouched drink, the still-sleeping lamp, the curtain drawn only halfway across the tall window. She hasn’t slept. She didn’t even try. Whatever weight she walked out of Dom’s club with last night never left her shoulders.
“You watched me,” she says suddenly, almost like a dare.
I meet her eyes. “Yes.”
“How long?”
“Long enough to see you stop pretending you were okay.”
She doesn’t look away. But her expression hardens.
“You think watching gives you permission to show up?”
“No,” I say. “I think it makes me incapable of staying away.”
She laughs. But it’s a bitter, low sound. The kind you make when something unwanted gets too close to being true.
“Are you here to protect me?” she asks, almost mockingly.
