Page 67 of Fractured Devotion (Tainted Souls #1)

She hangs up first.

The call dies in my ear, leaving a hollow static in its place.

I drop the phone onto the table, letting it clatter against the wood.

The weight of her words presses into my chest, tight and sharp.

She’s leaving.

Today.

I lean forward with my elbows braced on my knees, dragging my hands down my face.

Every part of me screams to let her go. To respect the walls she’s building, to let her walk away if that’s what she thinks she needs.

But I can’t sit still.

I can’t pretend I’m the man who can just stand by while she erases herself from my life.

I stare at the phone, my breath uneven, the war inside me spilling wider by the second.

I don’t want to lose her.

Not again.

I stand abruptly, shoving the chair back with a sharp scrape against the floor. My movements are fast, frantic. My jacket is in my hands before I even register grabbing it.

I move on instinct, my body faster than my thoughts.

By the time I realise my intent, I’m already halfway to my car.

The engine roars to life, and I pull out without caution, weaving through the streets with single-minded focus.

I keep replaying her voice in my head. Calm. Detached. Already slipping through my fingers.

I park fast in front of her building, the tires skidding slightly against the curb.

I’m out of the car in seconds, my heart hammering.

I take the stairs two at a time, not bothering to catch my breath.

I knock hard.

No answer.

I knock again, louder this time.

Still nothing.

I twist the handle, and the door gives.

Inside, the apartment feels empty.

Boxes line the walls, neatly stacked and sealed.

But she isn’t gone.

That small fact roots me in place, my chest tightening with relief.

I pull out my phone and call her, pacing the room as it rings.

Nothing.

My frustration burns hotter.

I hang up and dial again, already moving back out the door.

My eyes sweep the street as I step outside, my phone still pressed to my ear.

And then I see her.

Across the street.

Inside the bakery.

Sitting in the corner by the window. Watching me.

She doesn’t hide.

Her gaze locks with mine, steady and unreadable.

She knew.

She watched me search for her. Watched me hover outside her building, waiting. Watched me call, knowing I wouldn’t leave.

My breath leaves me in a sharp rush.

I lower the phone, my pulse loud in my ears.

Without hesitation, I step off the curb, my steps deliberate as I cross toward her.

She doesn’t flinch.

I reach the bakery door, pausing for just a brief moment.

My hand presses to the handle.

Still, she watches.

I end the call with a single swipe, slipping the phone back into my pocket.

Then I push the door open. And walk inside.

The warmth of the bakery hits me the moment I step inside, thick with the scent of fresh bread and roasted coffee.

She doesn’t move.

She sits in the far corner, her hands still wrapped around her cup, her gaze fixed on me, steady as stone.

I close the door behind me, the soft chime of the bell above punctuating the thick silence stretching between us.

I move toward her, my every step dragging through a strange current, something sharp and electric threading between us.

She watches me approach, calm and unreadable.

There’s no fear.

No invitation.

Just subtle expectations.

I stop at her table, my shadow falling across the wood, and for a second, neither of us says a word.

“You ran out of places to hide,” I say, my voice low.

She tilts her head slightly, unbothered, but her fingers tighten around her cup. “I wasn’t hiding,” she answers, her words soft but firm.

I slide into the seat opposite her, closing the distance without asking.

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table and lowering my voice so it stays between us. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye in person.”

She doesn’t deny it.

Her eyes stay locked on mine, cool and steady. “I didn’t think there was anything left to say,” she replies.

Something in me twists, sharp and brutal.

I study her, the shadows under her eyes, the tightness in her mouth, the ache buried deep, but not deep enough, beneath her calm.

“You were wrong,” I say.

Her breath catches, just slightly.

I lower my voice even further, leaning in until there’s barely space between us. “There’s everything left to say.”

The bakery keeps moving around us, unaware.

But in this corner, it feels like the entire world has narrowed to this table.

Her walls flicker, just for a couple of seconds.

But she doesn’t run, and neither do I.

I hold her gaze, unflinching.

I won’t let her slip away this time, not without a fight.

Her stare doesn’t break, and neither does mine.

The air between us stretches thin, full of everything neither of us is ready to say aloud.

She lifts the cup to her lips, but she doesn’t drink. She just holds it there, as if using the motion to buy time.

I know that tactic too well.

“You think leaving makes this easier?” I ask, my voice calm and steady.

She finally sets the cup down, her hands steady. “I think staying makes it harder,” she says.

Her honesty hits like a fist.

I lean back slightly, letting her words settle, letting her see that I won’t flinch. “You think I haven’t wanted to walk away from this too?” My voice is rough.

She doesn’t answer, but her eyes narrow, studying me, weighing every inch of truth in my face.

“But I stayed,” I say. “I stayed when it broke me. I stayed when it broke you. And I’m here now because I won’t let you disappear without knowing where we stand.”

Something flickers in her expression, small but sharp.

“We stand in ruin,” she says.

“We stand where we choose to,” I counter, my voice firm and unwavering.

Her breath hitches again, subtle but there.

I lean in closer, my voice dropping lower. “You can run, Celeste. You’re good at that. But you know as well as I do that running doesn’t erase what we are to each other. It doesn’t erase what we could still be.”

She exhales slowly, her shoulders tightening, her control beginning to fracture.

“You think I don’t know what this costs?” Her voice is sharp now, but it trembles at the edges. “You think I don’t know how this story ends?”

I reach across the table, my hand resting on hers, firm but gentle.

Her skin is cold against mine.

“I don’t care about endings,” I say, my voice soft but fierce. “I care about right now.”

She doesn’t pull away.

But she doesn’t lean in either.

She just lets me hold her there, suspended in the space we’ve both been too afraid to claim.

The world outside keeps spinning.

But inside this moment, it feels like we’ve stopped time.

Her walls are still up, but I can feel the cracks forming.

And I’m not leaving this table until I break through them.

Her hand stays under mine.

She doesn’t pull away.

I watch the war behind her eyes, the gentle panic of someone teetering on the edge of surrender.

I lower my voice even more, every word weighted. “Let me in.”

Her lips part, the faintest breath leaving her.

But she doesn’t speak.

I lean in, barely an inch between us now. “Let me in, Celeste. Stop pretending we don’t both feel this.”

Her fingers twitch under my palm. “What if it destroys us?” she finally asks, her voice so soft that it nearly disappears.

“Then we burn together,” I say without hesitation.

Her lashes lower as the smallest shudder runs through her.

“I’m tired of ghosts,” I murmur. “Tired of shadows. Tired of watching you run toward everything that hurts you just to escape something that could heal.”

Her breath catches sharply. “I’m not your redemption,” she whispers.

“Good,” I reply, my voice rough and steady. “Because I’m not looking to be saved. I just want the truth between us. No more lies. No more hiding.”

Her throat moves as she swallows hard. “And if I can’t give you that?” she asks, her voice fragile but direct.

I tighten my grip just enough to make her feel the weight of the answer. “Then we’ll make something honest out of the ruin. Together.”

She stares at me, something breaking open in her gaze, all the fight bleeding into something rawer.

Her fingers curl around mine.

Not a flinch.

Not a retreat.

A choice.

And for the first time, I see it clearly in her eyes.

She doesn’t want to run anymore.

And neither do I.

The door is open.

And neither of us is stepping back.

The air between us shifts, warmer now, but still trembling with everything unsaid.

I keep my hand over hers, steady and sure, feeling the way her fingers tighten around mine.

She doesn’t speak.

But she doesn’t let go.

I lean in just enough that my forehead nearly brushes hers. “Come with me,” I say, my voice tender but certain.

Her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t pull away. “Where?” she asks, the word barely a whisper.

“Wherever we need to go,” I answer.

A faint, fragile breath escapes her lips, but something in her gaze shifts, softening and letting me in.

She knows I mean it.

I stand slowly, my hand never leaving hers, and she follows, rising from the chair with a gentle grace that feels like surrender.

We walk out of the bakery together, silent but in step, her hand still curled around mine.

Outside, the street hums with life, but it feels distant, muffled under the weight of everything between us.

We reach her apartment and stand in front of the stacked boxes waiting by the door.

“You were really going to leave,” I murmur.

She glances at the boxes, then back at me. “I still can,” she replies, but there’s no conviction behind the words.

I step closer, my voice deep and firm. “Then tell me to walk away. Tell me you don’t want this. And I will.”

She stares at me, every emotion flickering across her face.

Her throat works, her breath shaky.

But she says nothing.

Instead, she moves toward me, slowly and deliberately, until her hands rest against my chest.

She looks up, her eyes fierce but shining with something raw.

And then she rises onto her toes and presses her mouth to mine.

It isn’t soft.

It isn’t careful.

It’s desperate.

A claim.

I wrap my arms around her, pulling her in and deepening the kiss until there’s nothing left between us but heat and need.

We don’t speak.

Words don’t belong here anymore.

Only this.

Her lips on mine.

Her body against mine.

Her choice.

And I know without question.

She isn’t leaving.

Not tonight.

Not without me.

We break apart just enough to breathe, our foreheads resting together, the air thick with everything we both just gave away.

Her voice is barely audible when she whispers, “Don’t let go.”

I tighten my arms around her, my answer soft but unyielding. “Never.”

We stand there, tangled in each other and surrounded by packed boxes and all the things we thought we could leave behind.

But this?

This stays.

And for the first time, it feels like we finally chose right.

Together.