Page 66 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

The morning atmosphere is thick with the scent of old books and the faint trace of lavender oil still clinging to the sheets. I haven’t slept.

I sit at the edge of my bed, the blankets tangled around my legs, my fingers absently running over the seam of my thigh where his bruises remain. They’re faint now. Almost gone.

The city outside is softer than usual, a strange, hushed calm after nights filled with sirens and screams.

I let the stillness settle into my bones.

The last time I saw Kade, we were both inside that dead van—the engine cold, the whole city poised on the edge of a heartbeat outside. We’d shut down Miramont’s last reserves from inside those walls, dragging the clinic to its knees together.

Afterward, I left him there, and he didn’t try to stop me. He just stayed in the dark, still as ever, watching as I slipped into the night.

But his words stayed with me, still echoing like a pulse I can’t shake.

Something pulls at my attention, subtle as the way shadows stretch with the morning light.

I rise, drawn by instinct more than thought, and drift toward the door.

And there lies the folded note, waiting as though it has always been there.

Its edges are sharp, tucked cleanly under the doorframe.

The hallway beyond is empty, quiet in the way abandoned places often are.

I pick it up, my heart steady but tight.

The paper is thick and rough against my fingertips.

There’s no signature.

Just words.

You don’t owe me anything.

Whatever was between us—whatever still burns in the dark corners—you’re free of it.

I don’t regret what we shared.

But I won’t be another chain around your throat.

I hope you build something better.

Something without ghosts like me.

If you ever need me, leave a message. You know how.

But if you don’t, I’ll disappear.

And I’ll never haunt you again.

My throat tightens, not from grief, and not from longing.

It tightens from the finality of it.

I fold the letter again carefully, and I tuck it inside the drawer of my nightstand.

I keep it not out of sentimentality.

But because I know I might need to someday remember that I chose to let go.

My phone buzzes beside me.

I glance at the screen.

It’s Alec.

I hesitate, then answer, my voice even. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” His voice is calm, but I hear the tension under it.

I glance back at the drawer. “I’m moving,” I say simply.

A pause.

“When?”

“Today,” I say.

Another pause, longer this time.

“Do you need help?” he asks.

I let a small, humorless smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

“No. But thank you.”

He doesn’t push. “You can lean on me, Celeste,” he says tenderly, his words soft but steady. “You don’t have to burn every bridge.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, my gaze fixed on the window where sunlight tries and fails to brighten the room. “Some bridges need to burn,” I reply.

But even I don’t know if I mean it this time.

“Still,” Alec says, his voice gentler now, “if you need a place to land, I’m here. No questions. No strings. Just… here.”

Silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.

It feels like understanding.

Finally, I breathe out slowly.

“Thank you, Alec.”

“Anytime,” he says simply.

The line goes quiet, and I end the call, the weight of everything pressing against me but no longer suffocating.

I glance around the apartment, my gaze lingering on the half-packed boxes stacked by the door.

Clothes. Files. Everything I need to disappear.

But for the first time, it doesn’t feel like running.

It feels like choosing.

I move through the apartment casually.

One by one, I fill the remaining boxes.

Books come first, the ones I can’t leave behind, their spines worn, the pages marked with old notes and faint coffee stains. I wrap them tightly in layers of old clothes, cushioning them as if they’re fragile relics.

Then the files—clinical records, research notes, and personal journals. I stack them with surgical precision, my fingers trailing along every edge, remembering the weight of every decision written inside them.

Photographs follow, though there aren’t many. Most are clinical snapshots, cold and professional. Still, I keep them, not out of sentimentality but out of necessity.

Each item finds its place, sealed in layers of cardboard and tape.

Before sealing the last box, I pause.

I move to the closet, pulling down the old box Irene gave me. The lid creaks faintly as I open it, the scent of old paper and cedar curling into the air.

Inside, the remnants of a life I barely remember wait in careful disarray. My parents’ photographs, faded and soft around the edges, their faces young and bright, locked in moments I can only imagine.

I run my fingers over the brittle notes, my father’s handwriting sharp and angular, my mother’s loops softer and rounder. Their words feel like whispers, stitched with love and the sacrifices they buried in their silence.

Every item in this box is heavier than its weight suggests. Each piece drags through me, anchoring me to a past I never truly owned.

I sit with it for a long moment, letting the ache settle.

Then, with deliberate care, I close the box again.

I nestle it inside the last carton, surrounding it with clothes to keep it safe.

Some things, even when buried, are meant to be carried.

I tape the box shut, pressing down the edges firmly and sealing the past inside with everything else I’m taking with me.

The sun shifts higher outside as I work, casting long shadows across the apartment.

When I finally finish, I check my phone.

A message blinks on the screen: Van will arrive by noon.

I exhale slowly, setting the phone down.

There’s still time to wait.

I move through the apartment, trailing my fingers along the walls and touching the spaces that once held every version of me.

There’s nothing left to pack. The boxes are already stacked by the door, lined up like quiet sentinels. Sealed and final.

Still, I can’t sit still.

I drift toward the kitchen, drawn more by muscle memory than intent. My fingers brush over the handle of the kettle—left behind for convenience, or maybe denial—but I don’t turn it on. There’s no comfort left here. Not in rituals. Not in anything.

Instead, I press my palm flat to the cold countertop, grounding myself.

I feel weightless and heavy at once.

Minutes drag.

I glance toward the window, watching the street below, soundless except for the occasional passerby. The bakery’s awning flutters faintly in the breeze, its familiar blue stripes like a soft beacon.

My phone vibrates again.

Still on track. Noon arrival. Will call when close.

I stare at the message for a moment, then slip the phone into my coat pocket.

I can’t sit here, waiting in this hollowed space.

I need air.

I grab my keys out of habit, then pause, remembering I won’t need them anymore. They stay on the table.

Without another glance, I open the door and step out, pulling it shut behind me with a soft, final click.

My boots echo down the stairs, slow and purposeful. No rush. No fear.

When I step onto the street, the chill kisses my skin. I pull my coat tighter, tucking my hands into my pockets.

The bakery draws me in naturally, as if my body already knows the way without asking for permission.

The doorbell chimes softly as I enter, the warmth inside wrapping around me instantly. The familiar scent of butter and sugar hangs thick in the air, calming in its simplicity.

I chose the table by the window, the same one I’ve sat at countless times before.

Then, I order a coffee, gentle and unassuming, and the barista barely spares me a glance. They know me here, but only on the surface. Names are rarely exchanged in places like this. Just familiarity.

The coffee arrives quickly, and I curl my fingers around the cup, savoring its warmth.

Outside, the world moves on without a care, people passing in pairs, some carrying shopping bags, others pushing strollers. No one looks up toward me.

I let myself watch them, letting their ordinary lives lull me into a sense of calm.

For now, there’s nowhere else I need to be.

I sip the coffee, its bitterness grounding.

Time stretches thin.

And I wait, calm and steady, as the minutes blur together, letting the weight of everything finally slip from my shoulders, if only for a little while.

The wind stirs outside, catching the bakery’s door every time someone leaves and sending a soft draft curling through the room. I sit unmoving, wrapped in the muted warmth of coffee and the soft hum of life around me.

I trace the rim of the cup with slow, absent circles. My phone rests beside it, face down.

Outside, the street flows with its usual rhythm, people passing by, cars pulling in and out.

And then I see it.

Alec’s car pulls to the curb in front of my apartment.

My heart stutters, sharp and quick.

He climbs out fast, his face tight with urgency, his movements sharp and focused.

I watch him from the bakery window, frozen.

He glances at the street briefly before rushing toward the building’s entrance.

I don’t move.

My breath catches, my hands tightening around my cup.

Some part of me wants to stand, to run after him.

But another part stays rooted, unsure if I should allow myself the pull of that kind of hope.

I watch as he disappears inside.

Seconds stretch.

Then, my phone lights up, and the screen glows with his name.

I stare at it, my pulse thrumming beneath my skin.

I don’t answer.

Not yet.

Instead, I close my eyes, letting the weight of the moment settle, soft and heavy.

Outside, the city moves on, oblivious.

And I sit in the bakery, on the edge of something I can’t yet name, as the phone keeps ringing.