Page 21 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

There’s a particular silence in the early hours just before Miramont stirs. Just after the ghosts of the previous night slip back into hiding. That’s when I like to watch her.

Celeste.

I sit in my apartment with the backup tablet angled perfectly, one leg propped on the coffee table, and my black coffee untouched on the windowsill.

The screens flicker with soft light against my face.

Her apartment fills every corner of my vision, live feeds from every room but the bathroom.

It’s a decision I’ve both respected and regretted a hundred times over.

She’s sleeping on the couch again. She’s curled up with a blanket half-tangled around her legs, the book she’d started yesterday—some academic slog about neural inhibition—lying on the floor like it gave up trying to keep her awake.

I adjust the volume slightly. It’s still low, barely a whisper. Just enough to catch the occasional shift in fabric and the faint hum of her microwave when it cycles again.

It’s late morning, and she’s still home.

I don’t like that.

She’s never been this inconsistent, especially not since she restarted Trial 14.

I rewind the footage to the early hours.

I watched her reheat leftover pasta, saw the way she slowly undressed in her bedroom, like every movement cost her something, and watched the steam rise from her bathroom when she slipped in for a shower.

She emerged in nothing but a towel, her skin flushed, her damp hair sticking to her neck.

My jaw tightened. I could almost feel the residual heat of the room on her.

She dressed in something loose and familiar. Not for seduction but for comfort. She wasn’t expecting company. She never does.

That’s what I’ve become.

A presence she doesn’t notice, but who’s always there.

And it isn’t enough.

I switch tabs and check the clinic logs. Her ID hasn’t pinged any major access points today. No labs, no diagnostics, no admin console. Just her own quarters. She’s gone quiet.

Or maybe she’s finally catching on.

I lean back, my fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the tablet’s edge.

Then I remember the van. And the bakery.

I remember that moment days ago when she lingered too long on the sidewalk. When she didn’t go straight home.

I replay the traffic feed again, my eyes scanning every inch of that static street shot. She’d walked into the bakery, her lips tight, her movements sharper than usual. Not startled. Not scared. Just… thinking.

The van had been there, parked three spaces down. Still. Too still.

She didn’t exit until minutes after it pulled away.

She’s seen it.

And she’s waiting to see if it returns.

I make a note in my side file. Van. Black. Two doors. Same plates as before. Window tint: moderate. Return watch: 72 hours.

She’s not the only one being watched.

And that’s where the problem lies.

I switch again, this time to the sensor override script. My fingers dance over the keys, inputting new protocol. If anyone who doesn’t belong comes near her apartment, I’ll know. And if they try to get in… well, they won’t.

Not before I do.

But something gnaws at the edges of my calm.

Mara. Alec.

They’ve been snooping around more than usual. Alec’s access pings have shown up in system logs adjacent to mine. They’re not overlapping, but uncomfortably close. Mara flagged a looped feed near Storage B12. It was mine. I patched that loop in myself.

She’s starting to connect things.

And Celeste… she told Alec someone’s watching her.

Fuck.

I’d been careful. Precise.

But the deeper I slip into her world, the more I want to leave fingerprints behind. And it’s going to cost me if I’m not more careful. Or it could be about the van. But all the same, I’ll have to be more careful now.

I scroll through my recent logs, cross-reference timestamps, then scrub the system traces Alec might’ve followed. One by one, I erase anomalies and push false flags into the system to mimic third-party interference.

If they find anything now, it won’t lead to me. Not directly.

Let them think it’s someone else.

Let her think the van is something bigger and more dangerous.

I can use that. And I will.

I craft a new plan. I’ll find a way to approach her. Casual and real. Maybe we’ll cross paths outside the clinic, near the bakery, in her hallway, or someplace normal.

And I’ll tell her the truth.

That I think I’m being watched too.

That I’ve seen the van.

That I’ve felt the eyes on my back.

And I’ll let her connect the dots I plant in front of her while I bury the rest.

She’ll run to me when the fear builds. And I’ll be ready.

My phone vibrates once. It’s a message from Rourke: Status?

I don’t answer immediately. I let him wait. He should know by now that pressure doesn’t move me. It only sharpens my focus.

Another buzz: You’re behind. I want a full transfer of Trial 14 records by week’s end. Get closer to her. Whatever it takes.

My lip curls. I already am closer. Just not the way he means.

I draft the reply without sending it. It says: She’s already mine.

Then, I delete it. It’s too early. Too raw.

Instead, I type out something sterile: Progress is steady. She trusts me. Soon.

I hit send and lock the screen.

Back to Celeste.

She’s stirring now. She’s rubbing her eyes and muttering something under her breath that I can’t catch. She stands, stretches, and moves toward the kitchen. I track every shift of her body—the arch of her back, the way she pads barefoot across the tile.

My hand tightens around the tablet.

Soon, she’ll be at work. And I’ll see her again, face to face.

But not as this.

Not as the man watching.

It’ll be as the man she thinks she’s beginning to trust.

The shape of control is subtle, but once it takes hold, it doesn’t let go.

Not until you’re all the way inside it.

And by then, you don’t even want to escape.

Not really.

By noon, the shift in her routine starts. She stretches off the couch, her movements slower than usual, like her body is still shaking off the weight of last night. The blanket drops at her feet. She walks into the bedroom, and I switch feeds, anticipation burning hot beneath my skin.

She doesn’t close the door. She never does.

The camera gives me a clean shot of her peeling the oversized shirt over her head and revealing skin that doesn’t just live in my dreams anymore. It owns me now.

Her breasts bounce softly as the shirt lifts away, and the way her spine curves when she stretches with her hips cocked to one side nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. My cock twitches in response, hardening instantly.

She kicks off her shorts next, her bare legs flexing with every shift. She lingers at the drawer, and I almost groan out loud when she bends forward with her ass high, completely unaware. Or maybe she knows.

Maybe she wants to torture me. The black lace she picks is delicate and minimal, her nipples already tight from the change in temperature as she slips the bra on. Fuck.

She steps into those slim black slacks, tugging them up her thighs like she’s doing it for me alone, then smooths them over her hips, zipping and buttoning with the elegance of a goddamn performer.

The blouse she pulls on is light, sheer, and unforgiving. Her breasts press against it, her cleavage visible for half a second before she buttons it up, too slowly, like she’s teasing. Like she knows I’m watching.

I watch her pull on a soft coat, one hand brushing her hair into a low twist. Every move is elegant, unhurried, and unaware.

When she finally steps back into the living room and grabs her bag, she pauses and looks around like she forgot something. Then, with one last glance out the window, she heads for the door.

I switch to the hallway feed.

The door opens. She steps out, her shoulders squared, jaw tight.

And I feel it in my chest. The same ache that hits every time she leaves without knowing I’m watching.

This time, I’m not letting her get far without me. The traffic cam shows the moment her building door opens a few minutes later. She steps out, keys in one hand, pulling her coat tighter. She hesitates on the threshold, her eyes darting down the street.

There’s no sign of the van.

Still, she lingers.

Then she starts walking.

I don’t wait. I grab my jacket, kill the tablet screen, and leave my apartment. The time for distance is over.

If she’s moving, I need to be close.

The rest of the day unfolds like a series of precise cuts—intentional, surgical, and deep enough to matter.

By the time I arrive at Miramont, she’s already there. I see her in the east hallway through the security feed. Her gait is sharp, but something in her posture betrays exhaustion.

I make no effort to cross paths. Not yet. She needs to feel the shift before she sees it.

Instead, I step into my office, adjust the monitors, and spend the next three hours doing nothing that looks suspicious. Things like data collection and baseline recalibrations, all the surface-level fluff that keeps Rourke satisfied and the interns confused.

Except I don’t stop watching.

From a side terminal, I access passive hallway feeds. She’s walking faster today, as if motion itself could shake something loose. She stops once, near Lab 3, and touches the wall like it might tell her something.

I close the feed. That look in her eyes will haunt me if I watch it too long.

Around 5 p.m., I make my move.

The hallway near the backup diagnostics bay is quiet, and I wait until she’s finished logging out of her terminal. I time it to the second. When she rounds the corner, I’m already there.

“Dr. Varon.”

She stops, startled just slightly, her eyes narrowing before softening. “Mr. Lorran.”

I smile, subtle and controlled. “Didn’t think I’d catch you before close,” I say.

“Was about to head out.”

I fall into step beside her as we move toward the exit.

“Sorry if this feels sudden, but I couldn’t help wondering. Someone mentioned you live near the bakery district. I think we might be neighbors and didn’t even know it.”

Celeste gives a half-smile, small and slow. “That bakery gets mentioned too often for its own good.”

I chuckle lightly. “Maybe it’s worth the hype. Or maybe it’s just convenient gossip material.”

“It’s decent. Their tea is horrible, though,” she replies, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Can’t explain why I still order it sometimes.”

“Noted,” I say. “I’ll stick with the coffee.”

A silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. There’s something in the way her gaze lingers on me now. It’s less guarded, maybe curious.

“So,” she says, her voice a smooth drawl, each word placed with care, “are you just making conversation, or are you warning me about bad pastry spots now?”

“Actually,” I begin, my voice steady but measured. “I’ve been noticing a van around the area. It’s been raising my suspicion, more like it’s making me feel like I’m being watched. I spotted it again this morning. It looked like the same model, same driver.”

Her pace falters for a fraction of a second, and her brows pinch. Then, guarded, she replies, “You noticed it too.”

“Hard not to when it’s parked in the same place more than once with the engine idling. It’s the same model with the same plates.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t deny it either.

“I don’t think it’s random,” I continue, my voice low. “Thought it might be clinic-related at first, but… now I’m not so sure.”

“So what do you think it is?”

I shrug. “It could be someone from one of the oversight bodies, or it could be something else. Either way, I’m not ignoring it.”

“Neither am I.”

She looks at me, and for a moment, something flickers between us. Shared paranoia. Shared silence.

“I just wanted to know if anyone else sees it too, if maybe I’m not completely losing it and spinning out in circles alone with all these half-formed theories.”

She blinks once, her brow furrowing. “I’ve been seeing it too,” she admits, speaking softly but steadily as well. “Thought I was imagining it, or maybe just reading too much into the silence. But it’s not just in my head anymore. It’s there, constant and watching.”

Her arms fold across her chest, her gaze flicking past me for a moment to scan the shadows of the hallway like she’s trying to remember something. Like she’s measuring how much of her own truth to share. Then, she looks back at me, her jaw set.

“It’s been happening for weeks,” she finally says. “I didn’t want to believe it at first. I thought… maybe I was just spiraling. But you see it too? That changes things.”

I nod slowly, letting her words settle between us. The weight of her admission isn’t lost on me. She’s giving me a piece of her fear, and in this place, fear is currency. And trust? Trust is a loaded gun.

“Then maybe it’s time we stopped pretending we’re not being watched,” I murmur, my voice just above a whisper. “And start figuring out why. Together.”

Her eyes hold mine for a beat longer than they should. Then, finally, she nods. It’s not a surrender but a pact. One that’s unspoken and dangerous.

Just the way I like it.