Page 71 of Fractured Allegiance
That’s the part that sits wrong in my ribs.
Because I remember everything else. The way the smoke curled through the rafters. The sound of the gunshot that dropped the first man. The way Dom’s fingers bit into my wrist when he pulled me toward the exit. The flash of movement. The silhouette in the haze.
Him.
His eyes.
Like they were cutting through the world just to land on me.
But this cut?
No idea.
I walk to the bathroom, snap the medicine cabinet open.
Bandages. Antiseptic. Cotton pads.
My hands are steadier than they should be.
I clean it methodically. The alcohol bites harder than expected. I don't wince. I just keep going. Dab. Wipe. Press. Seal.
When I’m done, I lean both hands on the edge of the sink and look up again.
Back into the mirror.
This time, I don't study the dress. Or the bruise forming low on my ribs from when I hit the pillar. Or the smear of something dried and foreign under one eye.
I look into my own eyes.
And ask the question I’ve been avoiding since the moment I locked eyes with him across the smoke.
Why did he move like that?
Not just efficient or tactical, but also intentional.
He wasn’t reacting to a threat.
He was eliminating it.
For me.
He saw the man flanking me and moved without hesitation or orders, just pure instinct.
That's not loyalty—that's something else entirely, something closer to possession.
Or worse, protection. And neither makes sense.
I press my fingers to the scratch again. Feel it throb once beneath the bandage.
That’s the real message of tonight.
No matter how keen you think you are… something always cuts deeper.
I change to something casual, and move to the bathroom and start rinsing out the blood from my dress, I’m halfway into rinsing the blood when the knock comes.
Two short raps.
Then one.
