Page 49 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

I can feel him before I hear him. And not in the way people mean when they talk about intuition. This is cellular. A shift in pressure. An ache in the space behind my ribs that knows when he’s near.

I haven’t seen Kade since our last encounter.

At least not properly. There was a brief exchange in his office two nights ago, soft but sharp-edged and unfinished.

I said I needed time, and he didn’t argue.

He just looked at me with that unreadable calm, like he already knew I’d be back.

Aside from that, there were only glimpses in the hallway and accidental tension in the corridor outside Diagnostics. Nothing sustained. Nothing with teeth.

I asked Mara to reschedule my non-essential sessions for the evening, citing exhaustion. It isn’t a lie.

Not exactly.

My fingers itch to touch something sharp.

Instead, I run a final audit on the Heretic Loop substructure. The code pulses on the monitor, steady and rhythmic. Like breath, like defiance. It’s almost ready.

But that’s not what tonight is for.

Tonight is for strategy.

I text him a single word: Now.

No pleasantries. No build-up. Just the signal.

And less than ten minutes later, I hear his footsteps outside my office.

The door doesn’t creak. It glides open smoothly. He doesn’t knock. He never does these days. Not with me. He steps inside like he belongs, like my air has always made more sense with him in it.

“Kade,” I say, not rising from my chair. The screens cast a dim blue light against the walls, painting his features in surgical cold.

“You said now.”

I turn to face him. “And you came.”

His eyes flick to the terminal behind me, then back. “Always.”

I stand, watching him watch me. “Do you trust me?”

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. “No.”

“Good.”

I take two steps forward. He doesn’t flinch. I reach up and press my hand to his chest, not gently. My nails skim the buttons of his shirt.

“Do you want me?” I ask.

His breath catches. “You know I do.”

“Then follow me.”

I walk past him, deliberately brushing against his side. The tension between us spikes like a live wire under the skin. I don’t look back. I don’t have to. I can hear his steps as he follows.

I lead him to the small diagnostics suite I’ve long since repurposed for privacy. The walls are thick, the locks are manual, and the room is dim.

I stop at the edge of the bed and turn.

“Strip.”

He watches me for half a beat, then obeys. Jacket first. Then his shirt. Each movement is precise and mechanical. As if he’s surrendering layers of defense, one by one.

I circle him. “You like control,” I say.

His jaw tightens. “Yes.”

I trail my nails down his spine. “You like masks. And pain. And fear.”

His breath shallows. “Yes.”

I press my lips to the base of his neck, then speak against his skin. “Good. Because tonight, you don’t get to be the one who decides.”

He shudders.

And I begin.

I take my time. Every touch is deliberate, every shift in pressure calculated to undo him. I reach up and blindfold him with the black silk I’ve kept tucked away. The moment it slides over his eyes, he stills.

“I want you to feel everything,” I murmur. “Without the safety of seeing it coming. No warning. No defense.”

He doesn’t respond with words. Just a sharp intake of air, a heavy inhale.

My hands glide down his chest, my fingernails dragging enough to leave faint pink trails. He twitches under my touch, but doesn’t flinch.

I tug his belt loose and slide it free with a taunting flourish. I undo his pants and pull them down just far enough to bare him. He’s hard and throbbing already. I press a palm over his cock firmly.

His hips jerk slightly when I grip him.

He raises his hand, instinct tugging him toward my face, maybe to touch, maybe to pull me in.

“Keep your hands at your sides,” I whisper.

He obeys, his fingers curled into tight fists.

I kneel and take him into my mouth, slow and punishing. I tease him with the flat of my tongue, then swallow him whole, holding him there until he gasps.

“Fuck… Celeste,” he rasps.

I release him with a pop, pull back, and bite the inside of his thigh. “No talking unless I ask a question.”

He groans, his hands still at his sides, shaking.

I stand again and guide him onto the edge of the diagnostic table. He sits, his legs apart, his breathing shallow. I climb onto his lap and straddle him.

I kiss him hard—no pretense, no hesitation—while dragging my palm down his chest, my nails grazing skin and circling lightly around his nipple, then down his stomach. He groans into my mouth, his hips twitching under me.

I shift, my hand finding him and guiding his cock with precision to my entrance. I let him feel the slick, hot drag of me as I rock my hips steadily, teasing and letting him feel the friction and heat without giving him everything.

He groans, the sound deep and guttural, then he lifts his hips impatiently, chasing the contact.

“Patience,” I murmur against his lips.

Then I sink down, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside me. The stretch makes me moan, and I feel his shudder against my chest, his breath caught somewhere between restraint and need.

His head tilts back, his mouth open in a silent moan.

I ride him at a steady pace, my hips rolling in a rhythm meant to drive him mad. My nails dig into his shoulders, and his breathing turns ragged.

“Tell me what you want,” I whisper.

“You,” he says, his voice guttural. “All of you. Like this. Forever.”

I clench around him, moving with maddening precision, my hips rocking down hard, then slow, keeping him guessing and dragging out every inch. He jerks up into me, slamming hard from below, a desperate rhythm born from need, not control.

I ride him again, slower, more brutal, grinding until the friction forces him to curse under his breath.

He tries to stay still, but fails, his hips lifting to meet every thrust like it’s the only thing anchoring him to his breath.

I lean back, my fingers splayed across his chest, watching him fall apart beneath me.

“Don’t come yet,” I warn.

He laughs once, hoarse. “Fuck. Trying.”

I lean in, lick a line up his throat, then bite his jaw. Then I ride him harder now, faster, until the sound of our bodies meeting fills the room, wet and filthy. He’s trembling now, barely holding on.

And then I clamp down around him and grind just right, chasing my climax.

I come first, loud, broken, and pulsing around him.

He follows with a groan that sounds like surrender, his hips jerking as he spills inside me.

And still, I don’t let go.

I clench around him again, milking every last twitch and every last tremor as my nails leave shallow trails down his chest. His breathing stutters and catches. I grind slowly, savoring the last pulsing throb of him inside me, watching his jaw flex with each wave.

I want to feel every echo of what we’ve just done and every shudder of loss in the space between thrust and stillness.

I drag it out until we’re both shaking and breathless, the line between pleasure and ache smeared raw.

Then I reach up and remove the blindfold.

His eyes are blown wide, unfocused, and devastated.

Perfect.

He doesn’t speak for a long time. He just lies there under me, his breath uneven, his hands still fisted like he’s holding onto something invisible. I stay on him, not moving yet, the weight of what just happened settling between us like heat.

His eyes flick to mine, dark and wild. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”

I tilt my head slightly. “Giving you what you need.”

He exhales like he’s been punched. “You don’t know what I need.”

My fingers slide through his damp hair. “I know exactly what you need. You just don’t like that I’m the one giving it to you.”

He grabs my hips now, breaking the rule. But I let him. His grip is bruising. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“So are you,” I whisper. “Only difference is I’m better at it.”

His laugh is bitter and breathless. He tries to sit up, and I don’t stop him. Our bodies shift, sliding apart, a shiver of aftershock running up my spine as I move off him and onto the table beside. The room smells like sweat and sex. It’s intoxicating.

He turns to look at me, his eyes colder now, like the mask is coming back. “Why tonight?”

“Because I needed to know,” I say simply.

“Know what?”

I meet his gaze. “If I still had power over you.”

His jaw tenses. “And?”

“You tell me.”

Silence blooms, thick and humming.

Then he says softly, “You scare the shit out of me.”

I smile. “Good.”

He stands and begins dressing. But his hands shake, just slightly.

I stay where I am, watching.

He doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves.

He doesn’t have to.

His fear is proof enough.

My control is intact.

And my war has begun.

The door clicks shut behind him like punctuation.

The silence he leaves behind tastes sweeter than his final kiss. My body is still buzzing, my skin flushed and wet between my thighs, the phantom throb of him inside me echoing against the edge of my nerves.

But it’s not lust that lingers.

It’s power.

I move, intentionally taking my time as I drag my feet across the room.

I clean myself up in the small attached washroom—warm cloth, minimal fuss, and no lingering at the mirror.

My reflection is unreadable anyway. My body aches in delicious ways.

But my mind… it’s sharp now. Awake. Every part of me hums with direction.

I walk barefoot back to my office, the blue light of my monitor flickering like a heartbeat in the dim. The Heretic Loop is still open. Still breathing.

My fingers glide over the keyboard.

I adjust parameters, rewrite thresholds, and recalibrate emotional load-bearing metrics.

And I think of him.

I think of the way he whimpered without meaning to and the way he held still for me, like he wanted to be unraveled.

That’s what power is. Not brute force. Not even control.

It’s being the one who decides when to give softness. When to withhold.

I rewrite the final fail-safe in the Heretic Loop with that clarity in mind.

This isn’t about revenge. Not really. It’s about making sure no one else ends up twisted into someone’s design like I was. Like Kade was. Like Harper.

A soft knock on the outer door breaks my focus. I glance at the time.

I already know who it is.

I unlock the door.

Mara steps in, nervous. “Dr. Varon, the early trauma logs you asked about—project legacy files—they’re still corrupted. But Reyes flagged a few alternative entry points. He said he’ll forward them to you directly.”

I nod, my voice even when I say, “Tell him to use channel delta. And thank you.”

She hesitates. Her eyes flick to the chair where Kade’s jacket now rests—dark, tailored, and unmistakably not mine.

It’s the kind of cut no one else in this building wears.

Maybe she recognizes it from the few times she’s seen Kade in passing, or maybe it’s just intuition.

Her gaze lingers just long enough to suggest a thought forming, or a rumor waiting to be born.

Her mouth opens, then closes.

I meet her gaze. “Was there anything else?”

She shakes her head, backing out. “No, Doctor.”

The door closes.

I exhale.

Let them guess.

Let them whisper.

Everything I need is almost in place.

Once the door clicks shut, I let the silence settle again.

It’s not the kind that comforts. It’s the kind that wraps around your spine and whispers that time is running short.

I slide the jacket off the chair, fold it neatly, and place it in the cabinet beside the door. Not to hide it, just to contain what it might invite.

Then, I return to the desk, my eyes scanning lines of code like a prayer. My fingers move without hesitation now. There’s no trembling. No question.

The Heretic Loop isn’t just a system override anymore.

It’s a reckoning.

Every parameter I define is a lit match. Every cycle I rewrite is a confession. I’m no longer editing the program to protect patients or shield the public. I’m designing it to rupture the mask this institution wears. To pull back the veil, teeth and all.

My hand hovers over the final sequence key.

But I don’t press it yet.

It’s not because I’m unsure. I’m past that. It’s because this—this exact second—is the last breath before impact. The last moment when I currently still have the illusion of being the version of myself I was yesterday.

Once this goes live, there’s no returning to ignorance. Not for me. Not for them.

My tablet lights up.

It’s a new message from Reyes.

Subject: Entry Found. Channel Delta Uploaded. Be careful with this one.

I open the file.

Encrypted layers fold back one by one, like old skin peeling under fire.

Then the footage begins.

It’s grainy and dated.

It shows a child. The child is maybe six. Maybe seven.

Sitting on the floor of a small, windowless room.

Her knees are drawn up, her arms wrapped tight around her legs.

A soft light pulses from the wall behind her.

There’s music playing, an old lullaby, distorted by age.

Then, a man’s voice cuts in, deep and instructive.

She flinches at the sound, but doesn’t move.

I pause the footage.

Because I already know what happens next. I remember it now.

The mask. The scent of antiseptic. The sound of the latch turning behind me.

It wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t an implanted script.

It was my life.

I close the tablet and lean back in my chair, feeling the throb return—not the erotic kind, but the one that pulses behind your eyes when truth demands more than you’re ready to give.

This isn’t over.

But the version of me who questioned whether it ever really happened?

She is.