Page 245 of Fractured Allegiance

I rip the knife free, press the tip into the soft hollow of his other thigh. He breaks. Words tumble out between sobs, jagged and fast.

Petrov Station. Drazen’s leverage. Payoffs to judges, cops, names stacked in files like dominoes. And Jori feeding Drazen the angles that nearly bled us out at Bellamy.

Every confession hits like gasoline poured on the fire inside me. Proof of the betrayal, proof of the rot that keeps crawling closer.

When I finally step back, the prisoner is slumped, sweat and blood soaking his shirt, his voice cracked raw from screaming.

The knife hangs loose in my hand, my pulse still pounding.

Lydia doesn’t look at him. She looks at me.

And it’s not fear in her eyes. It’s an edge I can’t name without carving myself open.

We leave him chained, slumped in his own mess. Elias doesn’t say a word when I shoulder past him on the stairs, the knife still hanging loose at my side. His silence weighs heavier than any warning.

Upstairs, the safehouse feels wrong. The floorboards groan under my boots, dust motes drift through the weak light,and everything smells of sweat and old wood. Too normal, too intact, compared to what I just left in the basement.

Lydia follows.

I stop halfway to the kitchen, toss the knife into the sink. The clatter rings out deafeningly. My hands brace against the counter, blood drying in black flakes across my knuckles. I step closer to the sink and wash off the blood.

Her voice cuts in behind me. “That wasn’t interrogation.”

I don’t turn. “No. It wasn’t.”

“You enjoyed it.”

I lift my head, meet her reflection in the cracked glass above the sink. Her arms are crossed, her jaw tight, her body coiled like she hasn’t decided if she wants to strike me or walk away.

“Enjoyed?” My laugh is dry, humorless. “That isn’t the right word. But I don’t regret it.”

She takes a step closer. “That’s the problem.”

I spin then, pushing off the counter, closing the space between us in two strides. My chest brushes hers, her chin tilted, defiant, refusing to back down. “Drazen tortures to break. I hurt him to protect you. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” Her eyes spark, daring me to answer. “Because from where I stood, it looked the same.”

My hand snaps out, catching her wrist, pulling it up between us. Her pulse hammers under my thumb. “You think Drazen would stop at a cut? He’d strip you to the bone and call it art. I put the fear of God in him so he’d talk before that ever happens to you.”

Her chest rises fast against mine. She doesn’t pull her wrist free. Doesn’t try. Her voice drops, raw. “You don’t scare me any less.”

The words bite deeper than she knows. I close the last inch, my forehead nearly touching hers, my voice a growl. “Good. Then you’re paying attention.”

Her hand twists, not to pull away, but to fist in my shirt. She yanks me down, her mouth crashing into mine, hard enough to split the skin of my lip. Fury burns between us, a kiss that tastes like copper and defiance.

I slam her back against the wall, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. Her nails scrape my skin, her teeth catch my lip, and still I can’t let go. The hunger carves through me, the rage laid open.

She gasps against my mouth, eyes blazing. “I don’t know if I hate you or need you.”

My grip tightens, my voice scraping against her throat. “You’ll figure it out. But either way, you’re mine.”

The kiss deepens, rough, messy, more fight than tenderness. My body cages hers against the plaster, every muscle straining with the need to take more, to drag her under. For one breathless moment, I almost do.

But she shoves hard against my chest, breaking the kiss, her wrists slipping free.

We stand locked in each other’s stare, ragged, shaking, like the air itself might shatter if either of us moves.

Her lips are swollen, mine split, her pulse hammering in her throat. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes cutting me open.