Page 65 of Fractured Allegiance
Inside, I drop the boutique bag on the counter. Strip the boots off at the door. Pull my hair loose and let it fall down my back.
Then I walk to the closet.
And open it.
I reach for the dress without hesitation now.
This isn’t about doubt.
This is about control.
I pull the zipper down and step into it.
It slides over my hips like memory. Tight at the waist. Exposing everything it needs to. Hiding nothing. The hem brushes my thigh as I walk to the mirror.
I don’t look like prey in it.
I look like something meant to be offered, but never touched.
I pull my hair up. Loose enough to look like I didn’t try. Earrings from the boutique: small and clean. The pale scarf stays in the bag. It doesn’t belong tonight.
I do my makeup standing, not seated—eyes focused, mouth sculpted, no blush.
I don't need to look warm. I need to look untouchable.
I don’t bring a bag.
Just my phone.
When it buzzes, it’s him again.
“Outside.”
I glance at the window. A black car idles at the curb, with its lights on.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror.
And walk out the door.
Chapter 8 – Silas - Fire Test
I see her before she sees me.
Red velvet hugging every line like it was poured on. Thigh peeking through the slit as she steps out of Dom’s car like it’s nothing, like she doesn’t know what she’s walking into. But I know she does. She always does.
Drazen said she’d be at the meet.
He didn’t say why. Just looked at me while zipping a Kevlar vest and muttered, “She intimidates better than a dozen of you.”
He thinks she’s a weapon.
But he doesn't see the whole picture—the way the room tilts when she walks in, the way men forget to lie. Power doesn't always wear a suit. Sometimes it wears heels and slips into a room like a dream you can't shake.
The warehouse is a repurposed slaughterhouse near the docks. It still smells like iron, all cold walls and concrete floors that hold the chill.
Light bleeding in through broken windows like it’s trying not to witness.
Drazen moves ahead with two of his men, Renzo and Bishop. The human embodiment of all brawn and no brains. I trail behind, listening to their exchange. Giving free information away, as if information isn’t power.
