Page 222 of Fractured Allegiance
Eventually, he stirs. His hand strokes my back once, rough and unsteady.
For a while, there’s only silence. Heavy. Dangerous.
Then I hear myself whisper, “What now?”
The words hang between us, fragile and raw.
He turns to face me fully. “Now?” He pauses. “Now we wait for the fallout.”
I pull back enough to see his face. Shadows cling to his jaw, his eyes still burning even in the dim light. “You think Drazen doesn’t already know?”
“He knows,” Silas says flatly. “There’s no mistaking that.”
My stomach twists. “Then why are we here? Why aren’t we getting out of the city, out of all of this?”
His grip tightens on my waist. “Because there’s nowhere they won’t reach. If we run blind, they’ll find us. And they’ll kill us both.”
I swallow hard. My pulse rattles. “So what—you keep me locked away in some safehouse, and we wait to see who comes knocking first? Drazen or your Bureau?”
His gaze hardens, a flash of something brutal in it. “I’ll take care of both if I have to.”
“You can’t fight everyone, Silas.”
“For you? Just watch me.”
The words are so raw, so certain, they make my chest ache. I want to argue. I want to tell him he’s reckless, that this is all going to collapse around us. But instead, I just press my forehead to his.
Because the truth is, I don’t have an answer either.
And for now, lying here in his arms, I don’t want one.
Chapter 26 – Silas - Ashes in the Morning
The safehouse is too still.
Sunlight slices in through crooked blinds, painting straight stripes across the floor. Dust floats in the beams, shifting whenever the air creaks, and the whole place feels like it’s holding its breath. Out on the street, the world moves—traffic, voices, footsteps—but inside here, it’s a dead pocket. A cage pretending to be a sanctuary.
Lydia is asleep in the next room.
I catch glimpses of her when I check in: one leg tangled in the sheet, hair sprawled across the pillow, body shifting when the dream gets edged enough to pull her under. My shirt hangs off her shoulders, oversized, barely covering the curve of her hip. The bruises stand out against her skin. The faded circles around her wrists, where my fingers left their claim. The marks on her thighs, faint red lines where my grip dug in too hard.
She wears them all so fucking gloriously.
And I don’t regret them. Not once.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her breathe. My chest aches with something I don’t have the language for. It’s not guilt, though Elias would probably call it that. It’s something darker. Possession. Proof. A need that’s burrowed so deep I couldn’t cut it out if I tried.
I think back to the first time I saw her back at Dom’s club. The way she cut through the room like she owned every man’s pulse in it. How she sat, talking to Dom, fierce and untouchable, and still, I knew I’d end up here. Bruises on her wrists. My shirt on her back. My obsession written into her skin like scripture.
Dom’s dead now. His body cooling in the dirt. The noise of his empire will keep for another night, maybe two, but Drazenwill strike back soon, no doubt. He won’t let that kind of power vacuum sit.
And the Bureau? They’ll be circling already. Naomi will have a dozen questions lined up. My cover’s already fraying, and all it will take is one wrong answer to get me burned.
But none of that matters. Not Drazen, not Naomi, not the Bureau breathing down my neck.
The only thing I see when I close my eyes is Lydia.
Every choice I’ve made in the last twenty-four hours—and, if I’m being honest, a lot longer—has been about her. And every choice from here will be the same.
