Page 70 of Fractured Allegiance

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I don’t follow him.

Instead, I catch Dom’s eye. “You driving her home?”

He shrugs. “She didn’t ask.”

That tells me enough.

Lydia wants space.

After what she saw — after the way we locked eyes through chaos, no words, no instructions, just blood and air and raw instinct — she’s probably trying to make sense of it all in her own way.

I nod once. Turn away.

Chapter 9 – Lydia - Red as an Answer

I don’t remember walking home. I can’t even explain how I got home.

Only that my hand wouldn’t stop shaking when I unlocked the door.

It’s not my first time being in a shootout.

But something about this one feels off, like the fear didn’t stay outside.

Now I’m standing in my apartment, the red dress clinging to me like wet paint.

I don’t kick my heels off.

I don’t pour a drink either.

I just walk straight to the mirror.

The tall one, opposite the windows. The one I keep telling myself isn’t for vanity but for symmetry, even though I know that’s a lie.

I face it.

And the woman staring back doesn’t look like someone who survived something.

She looks like someone who started to burn and never stopped.

Hair pinned up, loose now. Stray curls sticking to the sweat at my temple. Lipstick gone. One strap of the dress nearly off my shoulder, dusted with smoke and grime and god knows what else from the warehouse floor.

There’s blood on the hem.

I crouch slightly. Fingers shake the fabric loose from where it clings to my thigh.

The blood isn’t mine.

At least, I don’t think so.

I stand again, stepping closer to the mirror.

That’s when I see it.

A thin, jagged scratch just below my collarbone. Barely noticeable unless you’re looking. But it’s there. An angry pink line about two inches long, traced like someone meant to leave it.

I tilt my chin, bring my fingers to it.

It stings—mean and real. But I don’t remember how I got it.

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