Page 263 of Fractured Allegiance

A thick haze crawling through the gutted safehouse like it means to choke out the last of the living. Every window is shattered, jagged teeth biting down on what’s left of the night outside. The floor is a ruin of glass, blood, and brass casings, the air sour with cordite and copper.

Elias hasn’t moved from Mara. He kneels in the wreckage with her clutched to his chest, whispering words against her hair, promises laced with fury. His arm locked around her as though the world might pry her from him if he loosens his grip.

Mara is trembling, sobbing into his neck, fingers clawing at his jacket like she’s afraid he’ll vanish if she lets go. She doesn’t care about the blood on his hands or the streaks of it on his cheek. To her, he’s not a killer kneeling in a graveyard of bodies. He’s safety.

And Elias lets her believe it.

Jax slumps against the wall near the doorframe, his gun hanging limp in his hand, eyes wide as if he’s only just realized what we’ve walked through. His chest heaves, his shirt soaked through with sweat. He stares at the corpses scattered around us, at the ruin of the furniture, at Mara trembling in Elias’s arms. He whispers, cracked and broken, “Jesus Christ.”

I almost burst out laughing. Not because it’s funny, but because the kid still thinks God has anything to do with rooms like this.

Elias lifts Mara to her feet, one arm locked around her waist, steering her toward the hall. He spares no glance at the wreckage, no acknowledgement of the men he lost tonight, only the woman in his arms. His voice is harsh, meant for her alone. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

Safe.

The word hangs in the air like a lie. The floor is slick with blood, the walls torn apart, and Mara’s safe because Elias slaughtered every man who dared touch her. There’s nothing safe about it. But she nods anyway, like saying it will make it true.

Elias barks over his shoulder without turning. “We’re done here. Strip weapons. Leave the bodies. We move.”

Jax jolts as if he’s been whipped, hurrying to scoop up rifles from the fallen, his hands clumsy, movements jerky. He’s rattled, but he obeys.

I crouch to grab ammo from a man sprawled against the wall, the stink of his blood heavy enough to coat the back of my throat. When I rise again, Lydia is still staring at Elias and Mara, her knife loose now, hanging at her side. She looks like she’s seeing ghosts—maybe her own.

She catches me watching. Her eyes narrow, sharp again, as if daring me to say it.

I step closer until the smoke shadows my words. “You want to know what it feels like?”

Her grip tightens on the blade. She doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t have to.

We pile into the car reeking of blood. Elias takes the backseat with Mara pressed against him, her face buried in his chest, his arm locked around her as though he means to weld her into his body. Jax takes the wheel this time, eyes darting between the windshield and the rearview, shoulders hunched like he’s afraid Elias will see the doubt on his face.

No one speaks on the drive back. The silence is a wound that stretches across every mile, tight and throbbing. Lydia sitsbeside Mara and Elias in the backseat, her gaze fixed on the blur of city lights.

Her knife is still in her lap, blood dried to the hilt, she hasn’t bothered to clean it. She doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t shift. She just stares, as though the whole city is daring her to blink first.

By the time we reach the safehouse, the sky has darkened fully. Elias doesn’t wait for Jax to cut the engine before he yanks the door open, dragging Mara inside with him. His stride is relentless, his hand locked around hers, his body coiled with possession so sharp it makes the air sting.

The interior is cleaner, untouched by war. A narrow hall stretches past the entry, dim lights humming overhead, walls lined with doors leading to rooms no one ever stays in for long. Elias doesn’t even glance at them. He pulls Mara straight to the farthest room, his voice low but urgent. “With me.” The door shuts behind them, locking the rest of us out.

Jax lingers by the table, setting down the rifles he stripped from Drazen’s men. His hands shake as he lines them up, metal clinking against wood. He looks pale, drained, his eyes hollow. He finally mutters, “I’ll keep watch.” His voice cracks on the word watch, but he moves anyway, disappearing toward the front of the house.

That leaves me in the hall, shirt sticking to my skin where blood—mine or someone else’s—has dried into the fabric. The gash across my shoulder burns every time I move, so I peel the shirt off, drop it to the floor, and press my palm against the wound. It’s shallow, messy, more annoyance than threat, but the sting is enough to keep me grounded.

When I look up, Lydia is there.

She leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, her gaze flicking from my bare shoulder to the blood on my chest. Her expression doesn’t change, but something sharp glints in her eyes.

“You bleed like a stuck pig,” she says.

I snort, wiping my hand against the shredded fabric of my shirt. “You watch too much.”

Her lips tilt into the faintest smirk. “Maybe I like watching.”

I take a step toward her, bare feet padding against the wood floor, muscles straining with every move. The hallway is narrow, walls closing in, and her presence fills it until there’s nowhere else for me to stand but in front of her.

“You spent the last half hour staring at Elias like you wanted what Mara has,” I tell her, my voice low, deliberate.