Page 49 of Fractured Allegiance

I back away from the window. Not in retreat. Just to see what stays with me when I leave.

He does.

I don’t turn off the lights.

It’s a mistake, maybe. But I leave them on because I want to feel something watching. Or maybe because I want to pretend like I'm not hiding.

I walk back to the bed, but I don’t lie down. I sit at the edge, spine straight, hands in my lap like I’m waiting for confession.

I think about opening the window. Not because of the heat, but because the space feels spent, every breath recycled. Like Drazen’s fingerprints might still be in it. Like Dom’s scent lingers in the cushion seams.

But if I open the window, what happens if he’s really out there?

If I give the dark that invitation, I don’t know if I’ll survive what walks through it.

The buzz of my phone interrupts the thought. Abrupt and unexpected.

I snap toward it too fast. Adrenaline before logic.

Blocked number.

No message.

I stare at it until the screen fades.

Then I lock it and set it face-down. No use chasing ghosts with tools built for lies.

The mirror across from the bed catches me in full.

I rarely look straight at myself when I’m alone. Mirrors are made for performance, not honesty.

But tonight, I stand.

I walk to it.

The camisole clings in all the right places, but it’s not about seduction. It’s about ritual. Control. The lace is an armor I stitched out of years of pretending I wanted to be wanted.

I watch myself lift the hem and run one hand across my stomach. Not to touch. To remember.

The last person who kissed me here wasn’t gentle.

He wanted power, not permission.

Silas hasn’t touched me.

But I think he would ask.

Not out loud.

Not with questions.

But in that way he looks at me. The way he… waits. Like the hunt isn’t about the pouncing, and rather about the way you breathe right before you move.

I lean forward, palms flat against the mirror.

And then I close my eyes.

I don’t pretend anymore.