Page 32 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

So, instead of heading back upstairs, I walk the five minutes to my primary apartment, my mind grinding through static.

Once I step inside, everything feels too controlled.

I can’t stay still. I grab my keys from the bowl by the door—a rare act, since I almost never drive to the clinic—and leave again.

I need air. I need distance. I need to stop feeling like my life has been mapped out in someone else’s code.

The engine growls to life beneath me. I back out of the garage and take the long way out of the neighborhood, my hands tight on the wheel. There’s no music, just the hum of the tires and the distant hiss of wind through half-shut vents.

I don’t know where I’m going until I’m already outside the city, past the industrial corridor, and past the edge of where traffic cameras blink. The air here smells like wet asphalt and pine. I don’t come this way often anymore.

Fifteen minutes in, I take an unmarked turn down a narrow strip of road that cuts into the hills. It’s the road I used to take when I needed silence after therapy sessions. Back when I still believed silence was clean.

I park by a gravel clearing, kill the engine, and sit in the dark. My reflection, pale and hollow, stares back at me in the windshield. Just a shape in motion. I lean my forehead against the wheel for a brief moment before I raise my head back up and breathe.

Then, I see it.

A soft glow from behind a ridge. It’s not headlights. It’s something more muted, like a tablet screen or a console left running. It vanishes after a second. My pulse skitters.

I scan the tree line, but nothing moves.

Still, I step out of the car.

The air is biting. My boots crunch against loose stone as I move toward the ridge, my heart thudding louder than my footsteps. I crest the hill, expecting to find nothing.

But there’s a footprint, and it’s fresh. Too fresh.

Someone else came here tonight.

I back away slowly, my keys clenched between my fingers. I make it back to the car, start the engine, and drive. But not toward home. Just away.

Whatever’s happening at the clinic, whatever Harper may or may not be doing, whatever Alec’s suspicions are, it’s following me now. But watching doesn’t stop at the glass.

And silence isn’t clean.

It’s just the sound of something waiting to speak. Or just maybe it’s all in my head.

I don’t go back to my apartment right away.

Instead, I drive aimlessly for another half hour, looping through empty neighborhoods and industrial backroads, trying to decide if what I saw was real.

The glow, the footprint… either someone else was out there, or my mind is inventing threats faster than I can blink.

By the time I turn toward home, I’ve convinced myself of both. That it was something, and that it was nothing. That’s the problem now. I can’t even trust my instincts.

The apartment is cold when I step inside. I don’t bother with lights. I just take off my boots, drop the keys on the counter, and head straight for the kitchen. I pour a glass of water, but my hands shake too badly to lift it at first. I brace myself against the counter, steadying my breath.

Then it hits me.

The scent. It’s powdery, floral, and cheap.

My mother’s perfume.

It’s not the real bottle as she never wore perfume. But it’s the one from the dream. The scent that clung to blood and closet wood and silence. My breath hitches as I stand frozen, half expecting the closet door to creak open behind me.

I close my eyes, and I’m not in my apartment anymore.

I’m back in that room. It’s a small room with green carpeting and one window with a torn curtain. My knees are drawn to my chest in a closet stuffed with shoes and my mother’s old coat. And the door is cracked just enough for a sliver of hallway light to cut across the floor.

I hear it again—the low, wet sound of impact of a body slumping, and the high-pitched whimper of air leaving lungs. Her lungs.

Then comes the silence.

It’s not clean, not empty, but full of everything I can’t look at.

I don’t cry. Not then. Not now. I just grip the counter, my nails biting the laminate, and my heart pounding like it wants to claw its way out. I open my eyes again.

The kitchen is still dark, and the scent is gone, but the memory sticks, clings, and leaves something behind.

I grab my journal without thinking and flip to the last page.

And that’s when I see it.

A word: Celestia.

It’s not in my handwriting. It’s not even in my usual black ink. The words are written in red, and they’re curved and flourished. A style I don’t recognize.

I stare at it for a long time.

Because I don’t know if I wrote it.

And I don’t know what it means.

But it scares me more than the footprint. More than even Harper or Kade.

Because it means someone, or some part of me, is still inside, waiting.

And I don’t remember letting them in.

I sit with the journal for a long time, the word burning into my eyes like it’s been branded there. Celestia. It’s not a name I currently use, and not a name I’ve ever gone by for the longest time.

My thumb brushes the corner of the page. I half expect the ink to smear, to prove it’s fresh. But it’s dry and seeped into the paper. As if it’s always been there, waiting for me to turn to this page.

I snap the journal shut and stand. My legs are still shaky, like my muscles are catching up to the panic in my blood. I can’t stay here. Not tonight. Not with ghosts.

I grab my keys again, my hand trembling only slightly this time, and slip out the door.

The street outside is empty. It’s hushed in that eerie, predatory way, unnervingly still for a city that never truly sleeps. I take the stairs two at a time. The urge to run builds in my chest, wild and stupid, but I don’t give in to it.

I make it to the car and start the engine. I don’t know where I’m going, but anywhere feels better than this.

The first few blocks are a blur. I drive with no destination, only motion, past shuttered storefronts and flickering traffic lights. The city feels different at night. Less alive and more watchful.

As I stop at a red light, my phone buzzes.

It’s a message.

Unknown Number: Do you remember who you were before Miramont?

My throat dries, and I don’t respond. I don’t even breathe.

The light turns green.

I hit the gas.

Another buzz comes.

Unknown Number: Celestia did.

I pull over, my tires screeching lightly against the curb. My hands are slick on the wheel when I check the message again. It’s still there. It’s real.

I look around, my heart pounding inside my chest. There’s no one, no headlights behind me, and no footsteps. But I know what this is.

This isn’t just surveillance.

It’s a reminder.

Someone knows, not just my name, and not just my fears.

Someone knows who I used to be .

And they want me to remember.

Or they want to punish me for forgetting.

I drive straight to the clinic.

But I don’t go to the main building. I drive to the private lot in the back and enter through the side access panel, keying in the emergency override code.

The halls are dark. There are emergency lights only.

I move like I’m sleepwalking, but I know where I’m going.

I go three floors up to my backup apartment.

I reach the door and pause with my hand on the handle.

I don’t check for cameras. And I don’t check my phone.

I just step inside.