Page 42 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

I stay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, the copper scent of blood mixing with her scent on my skin.

Control is a kindness.

Tonight, she gave me none.

And I’ve never felt more alive.

I don’t move for a long time after she leaves. I just sit there, the scent of her still in my lungs, the taste of her ownership still pressed into my chest. Her mark burns faintly, more memory than pain now.

I reach up, touch the dried blood, smear it with two fingers, and bring them to my mouth.

Copper. Salt. Her.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

But it means everything.

Eventually, I rise. The apartment is quiet, thick with the weight of everything we’ve just done. My limbs feel heavier with every step, moving only because they must.

I don’t head toward the bedroom, at least not yet.

Instead, I veer down the narrow hall toward the guest bathroom, the one tucked just out of sight from the living room.

I don’t need to see her to know she’s still there, stretched across the bed, her limbs tangled in the sheets, unmoving but far from asleep.

I close the door behind me and let the faucet run cold.

The water stings as it hits my skin, sharp against the heat that hasn’t fully faded. I scrub methodically. The blood swirls down the drain in thin red ribbons, but the sensation stays.

Her nail against my chest, and the deliberate carve of that first letter. She wasn’t just marking me. She was signing her work.

I lean against the sink and catch my own eyes in the mirror. I don’t recognize the expression staring back.

Is this what it feels like to surrender? It’s not a weakness or a collapse.

Just the truth.

For the first time in months, no, years, I’m not pretending.

I finish cleaning, dress in silence, and slip back to the couch.

I don’t sleep. I watch the hallway instead. Every creak and every flicker of shadow makes my blood stir. But not from fear. From want. Because she could come back at any moment, and I’d let her do it all again. Or worse.

And I wouldn’t stop her.

My mind drifts to Rourke, to the assignment, and to the drive he wants.

I should care.

But my priorities have shifted.

There’s a new algorithm running beneath my skin now.

Her.

Not just the woman, not just the subject, and not even the obsession.

The variable I can’t control.

Because control was the only thing keeping me sane.

And the only thing more dangerous than loving her now… is letting her go.

I try to sleep. I do. But sleep and I were never lovers. At best, we shared a few unpleasant nights. Now, it’s just a formality. A muscle that I go through the motions of flexing. My body lies still, but my mind stays wired, backed up against walls that hum with electric ghosts.

I get up sometime past four.

The lights stay off, and I move through the darkness like it’s coded into me, my feet soundless against the floor.

I cross the room casually, my fingers brushing against the cool edge of the kitchenette counter.

For no reason, no conscious one, at least, I crouch and open the cabinet beneath the sink.

I don’t know what I’m looking for. Maybe cleaning supplies. Maybe something sharp. Maybe nothing at all.

But then I see it.

Tucked behind a box of sealed protein bars, like it belongs to no one, is a drive. It’s small and matte black. Nearly invisible.

Except I’ve seen it before.

Those times when she thought no one was watching.

It’s Celeste’s drive, the one Alec gave her.

The one she never lets out of sight.

I don’t touch it. Not yet. I just stare.

Then, I move back through the dark to the living room.

I grab my laptop from the side of the couch, feeling lucky I brought it with me, as I move back to the kitchenette.

I flip it open and boot it silently. The screen’s soft glow spills across the counter as I reach back into the cabinet, unwrap the drive, and slide it into the port.

The folder tree populates immediately. It’s encrypted, yes, but not beyond me.

I decrypt the top layer, and inside are several directories, obscure and deeply nested. One is labeled “EchoRoot” in a naming convention that shouldn’t exist anymore.

I open it.

There, buried near the bottom, is an audio file marked only with a timestamp: 0704_REDLINE.

I click play.

At first, it’s just static.

Then a soft click.

Then a tone.

I recognize it instantly. It’s the subharmonic pattern of early Echo test signals.

Predecessor algorithms to what we run now.

Most of them were banned. Most were deemed too invasive, too unpredictable.

But I memorized them all. Because you don’t just study the enemy. You become fluent in their grammar.

Then another soft click.

And then a tone.

And this, this tone, is one Celeste was exposed to as a child. It’s not theory and not speculation. I know because I coded a fragment of it into a test model recently. I even ran it once. On myself.

It gave me a seizure.

I listen anyway.

And buried beneath the digital scream, there’s a voice. A soft whisper. It’s almost mechanical, but unmistakably human. “Celestia… wake up.”

My blood goes cold.

I rewind and replay. I boost the gain and isolate the track.

“Celestia… wake up.”

It’s not just a prompt. It’s a command. A key.

Someone embedded a wake phrase in her trauma loop, which means the data on this drive—the one I stole, the one Rourke wants—contains more than memory scripts. It contains active controls and behavioral overrides.

Someone didn’t just watch her.

They programmed her.

I quickly transfer the files, then I eject the drive and slide it into my pocket.

After, I stare at the wall for a long, long time, listening to the hum of the Echo tech that still runs somewhere under the foundation of this building.

Control isn’t about who holds the leash.

It’s about who owns the trigger word.

And tonight, I think I finally heard it.

Time to figure out what Rourke really wants, and whether he already knows what’s on this drive.

The windows have begun to fog slightly with the first brush of dawn. A pale wash of silver peels over the rooftops outside, catching in the cracked blinds like the start of something unforgivable.

I move toward the bedroom door.

But I don’t enter. I just listen.

Her breathing is steady. She’s still asleep.

But I know better now. Sleep doesn’t mean safety. Not when the ghosts speak through frequencies no one else hears.

I could warn her.

I could tell her what I found. The phrase. And the way her name has been weaponized since childhood.

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Because telling her means admitting what I know, what I’ve always known, even before the files and the whispers.

That she was made for this.

And I was made to break her open.

I return to the couch and sit in silence. I press my hand to the carved wound on my chest and trace the letter she left me.

C.

Celeste.

Celestia.

It doesn’t matter what name they used.

It’s still hers.

And now, so am I.

Tomorrow, I’ll make my move. I’ll intercept Rourke, set a decoy path, and protect what little of her hasn’t already been dissected by vultures in white coats.

But for now, I let myself fall apart, softly enough that she’ll never notice.