Page 12 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

The night presses against the rain-slicked glass of my new apartment, smeared with the hush of drizzle that never quite becomes a storm. This building wasn’t mine until recently.

I told Dr. Felix Rourke that the move was strategic. Closer access to the assignment and an easier reach to Miramont if anything urgent broke the surface. He signed off without hesitation.

It was a lie.

Though not entirely.

The building sits almost equidistant between the clinic and Celeste’s primary residence.

It’s close enough that I can walk the path she takes.

It’s also close enough that I can catch sight of her most mornings and evenings, her steps familiar and her expression unreadable as she walks to and from the clinic.

She hasn’t used the clinic apartment in days.

Not since that early morning visit when she lingered outside the door with a strange tension in her posture.

I thought she might have suspected something then, but no formal complaints were filed, and nothing was said aloud.

There was only that brief conversation with Alec—the one where she mentioned the drawer. Just that.

I still don’t have access to the inside of her primary apartment.

Not direct access, at least.

Not yet.

But enough.

Enough to catch the tilt of her silhouette, bent at her desk, her shoulders hunched as if weighed down by ghosts.

Enough to count the nights she doesn’t sleep.

Like tonight.

She came home late, took slow steps up the narrow concrete steps, and paused at her door. She didn’t look up. But I watched from across the street, the camera feed flickering as it caught the reflection of her entrance light in the rain.

She’s inside now.

I can’t see her exactly, only shadows and movement. The brush of someone pacing, a light flickering on, then off, and a glass raised, untouched. The curtain never opens, but I know her shape too well now to mistake it for anything else.

She’s not resting. Not properly.

And I can’t look away.

My apartment is utilitarian by design, with dark walls, colder furniture, and nothing to distract or delay. I sit with the feeds playing mutedly against the wall. My body is still, but my mind spins in tight, perfect circuits.

The confrontation with Alec earlier still grates like a sharp edge under my skin. He didn’t tell her about the logs and didn’t mention what I saw him reading. That means he’s protecting himself, or protecting her. Either way, it confirms what I already suspected.

He’s compromised.

And he doesn’t even know just how badly yet.

But Celeste…

She’s shifting. There’s something new in the way she moves now. Something less fractured and more focused.

It’s beautiful.

And dangerous.

Restless, I rise and pull on my coat. It’s black from the collar to the cuff. It’s a thoughtless act now, like breathing. There’s a burn under my skin that won’t cool, a need I can’t reason with. I don’t expect to sleep. I don’t want to.

The hallway outside my apartment hums with emptiness, the dim amber sconces casting long shadows across varnished walls. I step out without hesitation. No one watches, and no one asks.

But I don’t head to Miramont.

Not tonight.

I walk the other way, toward Celeste’s building. I don’t tell myself there’s a reason because there isn’t. At least not one I’d admit. I won’t knock, and I won’t try to see her. It’s not about that.

It’s about being near.

She’s inside, I’m sure of it. I watched her enter hours ago, after she paused at her door like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go in.

The curtains haven’t moved since. Still, I walk slowly, tracing the edge of the block, past the benches and the hedge that runs along her building’s north wall.

There’s a spot behind the fence, half-obscured by trees.

I stop there.

I don’t know why.

Maybe just to breathe the air she walks through. Maybe to feed the part of me that’s been starving ever since I first saw her tilt her head toward the light.

This isn’t a strategy anymore.

It’s something else entirely.

I stay until the wind shifts, until the ache dulls just enough to retreat.

Then I turn, the night pressing in around me like a second skin, and walk home.

Alone.

For now.

I return to the apartment with a chill still in my spine, the city’s stillness threading through me like a slow pulse. The blinds stay half-drawn, the room lit only by the blue glow of a monitor waiting to be summoned again.

And yet, I don’t turn it on.

I shower instead with water hot enough to scald, hoping the heat will steam the tension out of my shoulders. But it doesn’t. All it does is fog the mirror and blur the face I barely recognize anymore.

I dry off, slip into black sweatpants and nothing else, and step barefoot into the living room. A half-empty glass of whiskey waits untouched on the table, but I pour another one instead.

And then I sit.

A knock would be too easy. A phone call would be reckless. But watching? Observing? That’s discipline. That’s control. That’s who I’ve always been.

So why does it feel like I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross?

The last feed refreshes in my mind, the shape of her near the window. Not seeing me. Never seeing me. That’s the point.

But I see her.

Every angle. Every pause. Every heartbeat I imagine echoing through her ribs.

And yet, it’s not enough.

Not anymore.

I close my eyes.

And in the dark, I don’t see anything but her.

Sleep never comes.

I give up around 5 a.m., the taste of old whiskey still coating the back of my throat. My body feels wired, my muscles coiled like they expect a command I won’t give. The stillness is deceptive, and it masks the hunt building beneath my skin.

I flick through the surveillance feeds again, not expecting change, not really, but my pulse ticks up when I catch the faint glow of light flickering to life in her apartment window.

It’s nothing detailed, nothing invasive.

Just enough to tell me that she’s awake.

Or moving. Or maybe, like me, she never really stopped.

She’s awake.

Or maybe she never slept either.

The idea stirs something hot and heavy behind my ribs.

I leave the apartment again without overthinking it. This time, I don’t pretend it’s for anything else. I want proximity. I want to feel her nearness in the air, in the soft drift of wind that barely stirs the dark.

There’s a bakery two blocks away from her building, its lights flickering on just as I approach.

One of the workers props the door open with a mop bucket, barely awake, but kind enough not to question me when I ask for a coffee.

I pay in silence, take the paper cup, and move toward the side alley, sipping like I have a right to be there. Like I’m not loitering in obsession.

She steps outside fifteen minutes later with her coat drawn close, her eyes unreadable. Her steps are precise and purposeful.

She doesn’t look up.

I hold still behind the awning, my breath lodged somewhere between restraint and indulgence. Watching her walk away feels like a punishment I’ve chosen for myself. I don’t follow.

Not this time.

Instead, I stand there long after she vanishes down the street, my coffee cooling in my hand.

Because I’m still clinging to the hush between moments.Not yet.

I wander.

Not toward home. Not yet.

The city is still blue and shivering with early light when I leave the alley and start walking aimlessly down side streets that smell of morning frost and distant steam. My fingers are cold around the paper cup, now empty, and I crush it before tossing it into a bin on the corner.

A woman stumbles out of a nearby doorway, laughing too loudly into her phone. Her voice fades, leaving behind the scrape of tires and the hush of morning air as I cross another street without looking. I don’t care. I don’t want to think.

Then, I see the van.

It’s black and nondescript. And it’s parked across from Celeste’s building.

It wasn’t there last night.

And it’s not one of ours.

I freeze in place, my heart climbing a little higher in my throat. There’s no movement inside. No identifiers. But the windows are tinted, the wheels new. They’re surveillance-grade, if you know what to look for. And I always do.

I approach slowly, angling down the opposite sidewalk and keeping my posture loose, disinterested.

I draw my phone out and pretend to scroll.

There are no signs of activity. But something feels wrong, off balance.

I double back and casually take a photo over my shoulder before saving it with a coded tag.

Then I disappear into the next block, circling wide until I can cut through a narrow alley toward the back of her building.

This changes things.

If someone else is watching her…

I can’t allow it.

A surge of something close to possessive fury threads through my gut. It’s not just the job. Not just the research. It’s her. If someone who isn’t me is watching her—

I have to know who.

I pace until the van drives off an hour later, plain and idle, like it was meant to be ignored. I make a point to memorize the license plate. It’s fake. Of course it is. But it gives me a start.

A new player is on the board.

And they’ve made their first move.

But they’ll regret stepping into my game.

I watch until the van disappears around a curve and is swallowed by traffic and distance. The chill of dawn still clings to my coat, but I feel hotter now, more restless.

I shove my hands deep into my pockets and head toward home, my steps fast and hard against the wet sidewalk.

My mind reels. I already saw her step out, her coat drawn close, purposeful strides cutting through the mist like a blade.

Probably heading to the clinic, though it’s early, even for her.

I wonder why. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.

Once I reach my apartment, I throw my coat aside and grab the backup tablet, cursing myself for not keeping it on me. That won’t happen again. From now on, I’ll carry a bag. Something light, always within arm’s reach.

It’ll hold the tablet, portable feeds, and enough tools to get into any lock if the opportunity presents itself. Especially now, with the surveillance void inside her primary apartment still wide open.

I should’ve had the right tools this morning.

I could’ve gotten in.

I could’ve planted the mics and the infrared sensors and slipped back out like nothing happened.

Next time, I won’t hesitate.

Because whoever sent that van might beat me to it.

And that’s not an option.

I switch on the surveillance console the moment I finish the setup on the tablet. Within seconds, the clinic feed loads, just as it is on the screens on my wall.

Celeste is already there. I catch her on the feed as she leans over her desk and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, her focus sharp and unwavering.

She’s in her office earlier than usual.

Naturally. Her routine is predictable—clinic to home, then home to clinic. She rarely strays beyond those points, rarely indulges in detours. It makes her easy to track, easier to anticipate, and for me, harder to ignore.

My jaw tightens as I absorb the sight of her completely immersed in whatever file she’s opened.

She’s in the clinic, which means I still have time.

I don’t waste a second. I throw on a fresh shirt, slip the tablet into a slim side pocket of my field pack, then add the micro-tools, infrared bugs, and audio nodes I should’ve had earlier. Each one is pocketed with clinical precision. It’s muscle memory now.

By the time I make it back to her building, it’s quiet. A window two floors up creaks slightly as the wind presses against it, but there’s no one loitering outside. I keep to the side entrance, the maintenance side, and disable the latch with a practiced flick of the lockpick.

Inside, the stairwell smells of stale air and metal polish. Her door awaits three floors up. I don’t hesitate. I move in and place the nodes behind the baseboards and inside the vent grates. One infrared sensor is tucked behind a shelf corner.

No traces.

No sounds.

I’m in and out in under five minutes.

By the time I arrive at the clinic, my pulse is steady, my pace normal. No one notices, and no one asks, as usual. I swipe in, pocket the badge, and take the west stairwell two steps at a time.

By the time I reach my terminal, Celeste is still in her office, reviewing files. The light catches her jawline as she leans closer to the screen.

I lean back, the monitor’s glow painting silver lines across my forearms. She’s there. Close, real, and unknowingly near. My fingers twitch against the edge of the console.

I shouldn’t crave the air she breathes, the way her mouth softens when she concentrates, and the rare tilt of her head that sends her hair spilling loose over one shoulder. But I do. And it’s not clinical. It’s not calculated. It’s something else. Something primal that gnaws through reason.

I want to get closer.

But I catch myself, just in time. My jaw locks tight, and I force the thoughts down where they belong.

Not yet.

I shift in my seat, my eyes narrowing on the screen as if that can dull the ache. She looks up, but not at me, not through the feed. She just looks away, lost in her own world.

And I stay still, reminding myself of the lines I haven’t crossed.

Yet.