Page 23 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

I watch Celeste closely, measuring the stiffness in her spine and the way her fingers twitch slightly as I mention the van.

I took a calculated risk approaching her this way—one step out of place, and she might’ve shut me down.

But she doesn’t. Her nod is subtle, and then she walks off, her posture tight, like she’s bracing for a storm just beyond the horizon.

I watch until she disappears into the narrowing distance of the street—silent, contained, always on the edge of unraveling. And maybe that’s why I linger longer than I should. Because I know what it looks like when a person is close to splitting down the middle.

She didn’t ask how I knew and didn’t question why I was outside the clinic at that hour or how I recognized the van. She should’ve, but she didn’t. And that silence? It says more than her words ever could.

I head home, a few blocks away. My apartment is sterile, neat, and holds a hush that feels unnatural. I shut the door and flick on the monitors, one by one, as I settle in front of the wall of feeds. A grid of her.

Living room. Bedroom. Hallway. There’s nothing yet.

I rewind the traffic cam feed from her street. The timestamp is fifteen minutes back. The streetlight throws an orange glow across the pavement. I expect to see her turn in toward the apartment.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she keeps walking down Trent.

I follow her route from one public camera to the next, tracing her steps like threading a needle. She walks past the storefronts, her shoulders tight, her head slightly dipped. Then she disappears into a dimly lit bar with a flickering neon sign.

I sit back, watching the door for nearly an hour. The feed loops and jumps, and I switch cams. But she doesn’t come out.

By 11 p.m., I’m getting restless.

I switch between traffic feeds and her building’s exterior, but there’s nothing yet. Then it happens.

Movement on the home feed.

It’s a figure. Not Celeste.

The door opens slowly. No damage. Either the lock was picked, or a key was used.

The person—a lean frame with a black hoodie and gloved hands—steps inside. There’s no hesitation. Just measured movements. Their body language reads too clean for a burglar. No rifling, no fumbling. This is reconnaissance.

They drift past the kitchen. One hand stays inside their jacket. Then they move to the bedroom and pause at the closet. Something small gets planted high up inside the molding, just tiny enough to avoid casual detection.

Then they’re gone. In and out within four minutes. No trace.

I freeze, my eyes locked on the replay. My gut twists.

This isn’t surveillance. This is exposure.

I exhale, my fingers twitching toward my tablet.

I press replay and zoom, frame-by-frame. I still can’t catch their face.

I could go there and intercept.

But I don’t.

Instead, I open a secure line, encrypt everything, and store the footage under an unlisted directory.

Who the fuck was that?

Whoever that was, they’re good.

Too good.

Maybe this is the van’s owner. Maybe this is the escalation I didn’t plan for. Or maybe… maybe this is exactly what I needed. A new danger to stand behind. One that could explain my presence, my concern, and my closeness.

This is precision and infiltration. Fuck.

I scrub back through the earlier feed. The bathroom, living room, and front door. Still no Celeste.

She’s still at the bar. I find the nearby traffic feed and confirm it.

And now I’m not just watching. I’m boiling.

This wasn’t random. Whoever this is, they’ve done it before. They’re trained, fast, and not here to rob or warn. They wanted her rattled. Or tagged. Maybe both.

My fingers clench around the edge of the console. She’s been spiraling for days, and now? Now this.

I stare at the empty hallway and the faint motion light flickering off.

Someone else is playing my game.

I sit back, pull the encrypted backup tablet, and isolate the footage. I start overlaying timestamps from when she left the clinic and entered the bar. Whoever this intruder is, they waited until she was settled somewhere public.

Clever.

I don’t like clever.

I glance at the clock. It’s 12:04 a.m. She’s still inside.

I send a ping through the system to see what’s been tripped. Nothing. They bypassed every single measure I’ve put in place.

That’s what makes me furious.

I shove back from the desk and pace, letting the silence settle around me. My apartment is too cold, too clean. It’s a place built for someone who doesn’t exist.

This was supposed to be control.

My control.

Now she’s in the dark, and someone else is flicking the lights.

I pull up the last frame again, then pause and enhance.

For a long moment, I say nothing. Then I smile.

You want a war? You’ve got one.

But first, I need her closer.

Much closer.

Because if she’s being hunted by more than just me, then I’m not the villain anymore.

I’m the fucking hero.

By 12:38 a.m., she finally leaves the bar.

Her steps are dragged and uneven from the drinks, but steady enough. The camera on her street catches her just before she rounds the last corner. Her hair is mussed, and her cheeks are flushed. It’s the kind of flush that stirs heat deep in my abdomen.

I turn back to the apartment feed and wait.

Her door opens at 12:49 a.m.

I sit up straighter, watching as she kicks off her shoes just inside, leaving them near the mat. She peels off her coat and lets it drop to the floor. Her movements are lazy and fluid, like someone unraveling at the seams.

She moves to the kitchen, pulls open the fridge, her eyes unfocused, and takes out a leftover meal, some kind of chicken stir-fry sealed in a plastic container.

She tosses it onto the counter with one hand and presses a few buttons on the microwave. The soft hum begins as it heats for ninety seconds under her timed settings, the countdown glowing faintly in red.

Then she heads for the bedroom.

I switch feeds.

She’s undressing. First her jeans, then her fitted top. My breath catches. Her skin glows faintly under the dim light. She’s not shy about it, maybe because she thinks no one can see. But I can.

God, I can.

Every curve of her hips and the taut line of her thighs. Her bra drops next, and I suck in a breath through my teeth. My hand tightens on the armrest.

She moves like sin incarnate, unaware of the storm she stirs in me. A slow turn. Then, she slips on a thin tank and black shorts.

I can’t look away.

She moves back to the kitchen just as the microwave beeps. Her movements are languid, almost drunk on fatigue. She pulls the heated meal out and takes a few distracted bites standing by the counter, her eyes distant. Then she drifts to the couch with the plate in hand.

The cushions take her in like a lover. She eats a little more, slower now, like her body’s unsure it wants to keep functioning.

Eventually, the fork drops from her hand, the plate lands askew on the side table, and her head tips back.

A few minutes of shallow sleep. The kind that only exhaustion can force.

Then, groggy and sighing, she rises and makes her way toward the bedroom.

She crawls into bed, drags the covers up with one arm, and curls into herself. And I keep watching and waiting, living the moment with her.

It’s the first time in days that she has slept that deeply. Her chest rises and falls in slow, unhurried rhythms. No tossing, no turning. Just stillness.

I shouldn’t watch her for this long. I know that. But it’s not just about obsession now. It’s proximity and power. Knowing every breath she takes without her knowing mine.

I stare at the screen until the edge of dawn pinks the sky.

When she finally stirs—late and a little disoriented—I lean forward again.

She rubs her eyes, stretches with a wince, and moves to the closet. There, she peels off her clothes again, discarding the tank and shorts with a slow, practiced grace that does dangerous things to my bloodstream. Then, she steps into the bathroom, her bare legs long and tempting. My mouth dries.

Soon, she appears again and grabs fresh clothes—black slacks and a soft blouse. She dresses quickly, almost annoyed, like she’s late. Her motions are clipped and efficient.

Still perfect.

I watch until she disappears from the frame. Only then do I let myself exhale.

It’s not over.

Not even close.

But it’s beginning.

I don’t move. And I don’t follow her today.

I stay exactly where I am.

Because someone else was in her apartment last night, and I need to know who. Maybe they will be the answer to all the issues going on lately.

I rewind again, slowing the intruder’s movements frame by frame. Every motion is surgical—clean gloves, no wasted steps. But it’s not just how they move. It’s what they avoid.

They knew exactly where not to look. The angle they took toward the closet avoids the lens I installed weeks ago. That’s not luck. That’s intelligence.

Someone has access to more than just her space. They also have access to mine.

I take a breath, then I start scrubbing.

All traces of the footage get backed up to a separate offline drive and encrypted three layers deep. Then I pull a series of internal logs from the secondary tap points. Remote sensors, traffic pulses, and entry signal discrepancies.

There.

At 11:02 p.m., there’s a ping, one just faint enough to look like network drift. Except it lines up to the moment that bastard bypassed the door.

They used a key fob clone. One that mimics the same code as hers.

Which means they got close to her. Real close. Enough to lift the encryption handshake from her own access device.

My fingers flex. This isn’t just shadowplay anymore. It’s full contact.

And the worst part? She has no idea.

She thinks she’s being hunted by ghosts. By paranoia. But it’s worse than that.

She’s being surrounded.

I grab my burner and fire a message to a buried relay account—one of the ones that lets me pull anonymous access queries through clinic data. Then I tag it to the lab’s secure server.

Within minutes, I’m reading flagged keycard logs.

And there it is. Her ID string… duplicated twice in the last five days.

Someone’s using her name to move through the system.

Someone who isn’t me.

I push back from the desk, cold rage settling deep in my stomach.

I need to act. Now.

But carefully.

If I confront the wrong person, I spook the whole nest. And if I get too close to Celeste too fast, she’ll retreat.

Unless…

Unless I use this.

The intrusion, the impersonation, the van. I shape them all into one sharp narrative. One she’s already halfway convinced of.

I make myself an ally. The one man willing to name it. The one man who understands what it means to be invaded, erased, and observed.

I just have to push it a little further.

And keep Alec out of the picture.

I head for the shower, adrenaline lacing through my every muscle. I scrub quickly and dress sharper than usual in a dark gray sweater and tailored coat. With enough edge to appear professional, and enough looseness to be just a little unguarded.

Then I walk to the clinic. Not to start a war.

Not yet.

Just to plant the idea.

To become the safest person in her world.

So when the next wave hits, she won’t run from me.

She’ll run to me.

And that’s when I’ll take her.