Page 18 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

The static tension crawling across my shoulders doesn’t ease. She’s always precise. Even in chaos, she has rhythm. But tonight, she’s breaking her own pattern.

I rewind to just before ten, expecting to see her at the building’s entrance. But nothing. She doesn’t show.

My stomach tightens.

No cab, no escort. Just her, on foot, making an uncharacteristic detour.

She’s inside, alone, and no one follows. The resolution blurs too much to catch her expression, but I note how long she stays. Nearly an hour passes, and she still hasn’t come out. I rewind the feed twice to be sure. Nothing. She’s still inside.

My grip tightens on the edge of the tablet.

I shift in my seat and glance through the windshield.

The van is still there, parked in the same spot across from her building.

It hasn’t moved all night. It has a black exterior, windows that are too dark, and a license plate blurred by dust that looks deliberate.

The usual plate has been confirmed to be fake anyway.

I made sure to check. Someone else is watching.

The possibility gnaws at me. Is that why she hasn’t gone home yet? Did she notice? Of course she did. Celeste doesn’t miss things like that. She observes better than most men breathe.

I watch the bakery’s entrance now instead. Eventually, the van drives off, slipping away as if the street were asleep.

Minutes later, she emerges with her coat tight around her, her movements stiff and purposeful. She doesn’t glance around, but her posture has shifted. She walks straight to her apartment.

Only after her door closes behind her do I leave the car.

After I leave the car, I cross the street on foot and settle into the corner booth of the bakery, where she lingered.

The waitress takes my order. Just coffee, my usual.

It’s just past midnight when I slip the tablet from the inside of my coat and power it on. The encrypted interface stabilizes in the dim light.

This place smells like yeast and pine-scented cleaner, a bitter combination that keeps my senses sharp. Outside, the moon bleeds pale through the fogged window, casting a thin glow across the outline of Celeste’s building.

The camera feed stutters before it resolves. Her living room appears first, dim and soft-lit by a dying lamp near the couch.

There she is, her shoulders stiff, moving on autopilot. She drops her bag on the coffee table, and then she disappears into the bedroom next. The camera there picks up her silhouette as she undresses in no hurry, her back turned to the lens.

She peels off her coat, then her blouse. Her hands pause at her bra clasp, her fingers still for a minute that stretches. Then she unhooks it, slow as sin, letting it fall to the bed in a whisper.

Then, she drags her legs, bare and smooth, and moves with the kind of unhurried grace that makes my blood burn.

She moves to the dresser, bends slightly, and pulls out a nearly translucent thin cotton shirt and a pair of shorts that wouldn’t pass for decency even in private. The shirt clings to her body immediately, her nipples peeking through the fabric as she tugs it down.

I shift in my seat, adjust myself, and swallow something hot and sharp.

She’s made for ruin.

For devotion that doesn’t ask permission.

She looks exhausted, but I’m no longer thinking about her exhaustion. I’m thinking about the curve of her spine and the way her hip moved as she crossed the room.

I’m thinking about what it would sound like if she said my name, not in fear, but in surrender. Soft and needy. A sound scraped from the back of her throat as she surrendered.

Because she finally realizes I’m the only one who sees her clearly. The only one who would dismantle her with reverence.

The only one who knows exactly how to make her unravel.

Eventually, she drapes herself onto the couch in the living room, and her body settles like water curling into the curve of a shore.

The bowl clinks faintly against the table.

Her hand drifts toward the edge of the cushion, deep in thought, and it makes me wonder what exactly is running through her mind.

Her shirt rides higher now, and I see the pale line of her hip and the fine twitch of muscle beneath it as sleep takes her under.

She sleeps like she wants to be caught.

And I watch her like a man born with shackles in his bloodstream who’s finally seeing what they were made for.

I exhale, my jaw tight.

This is the version of her that no one else sees.

Raw, unperformed, waiting.

Waiting for something.

Or someone.

She shifts, barely. One leg extends over the throw blanket, her toes peeking out. She’s barefoot and unprotected. Her mouth parts slightly in sleep, a flicker of restlessness working across her brow.

Not peace. She doesn’t know peace.

I watch.

But not for data. Not anymore.

The urge to touch the screen rises, my thumb pressing instinctively toward her temple. But I stop myself. I’ve learned to trace her contours without leaving fingerprints.

Movement outside breaks the moment. The bell above the bakery door jingles, and a faint scuff of soles on the tiles draws my eye toward the counter.

A waitress moves past, refilling a sugar tray near the register. Her presence disrupts nothing, but I catalog the detail anyway.

It’s routine and harmless. Not the van.

That left a while back, gliding out of sight just before Celeste slipped out of the bakery and into her apartment. Still, its absence buzzes in my skull.

Interesting.

Whatever that surveillance was, it wasn’t random. And she waited it out like someone who’s been watched before.

Still, whoever they are, they’re not watching her like I do.

The waitress returns with my coffee. Her shoes squeak faintly on the tile.

“You good?” she asks, the cup already halfway to the table.

I nod. “Just coffee. The tea is always a mistake.”

She smiles weakly and sets it down. I let the steam rise. It smells burnt and bitter, which is perfect. Nothing delicate survives at this hour.

When she leaves, I glance back at the screen. Celeste hasn’t moved. One hand curls near her collarbone like she’s bracing for something that never fully lands.

She dreams of impact.

I shift in the booth, letting the vinyl press into my spine. Her book has slipped down to her side, and I catalog the title. She’s training herself, even in slumber.

And I’m documenting every breath.

I stay for a while longer. Long enough to ensure she hasn’t stirred. Long enough to commit every image to memory.

Then I close the tablet and pocket it.

Tomorrow, I’ll cross-check activity logs. But tonight, I have everything I need.

Celeste, curled peacefully, asleep like the air itself is on hold.

And me. The only one who sees her like this.

The only one who doesn’t turn away.