Page 227 of Fractured Loyalties

“Pepper spray is for people who want help to be nearby.” Lydia picks up the baton, snaps her wrist, and it runs out to full length with a clean metallic punch. “You won’t always have it.”

She lets me feel the weight. It’s heavier than it looks. My hand adjusts. She watches how my fingers settle.

“You’re right-handed,” she says. “Grip is decent. You’ll choke up when you’re scared. Don’t. Keep your hand here. If you lose it, don’t fish for it. Move. Create space. Get to a door, a car, a corner with a camera. You’re not trying to win a war. You’re trying to survive the first thirty seconds.”

“Thirty seconds is a long time.”

“It is when your lungs stop listening.”

She gets up from her seat and gestures for me to get up too. I do, then she steps closer, sets my feet with a tap of her boot on my toes.

“Square up. Knees soft. Hips back half an inch. If someone grabs your wrist, you twist toward their thumb. If someonegrabs your hair, you step in, not away. Elbows hurt. Eyes hurt more.”

Her voice stays even. Not cruel. Not kind. Instruction that assumes I can learn because I must.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask.

She considers that. “Because he can’t be everywhere. Because I don’t like losing people on my watch. And because men like the ones hunting you only respect two things: speed and pain.”

“Caleb,” I say. The name feels like a bruise. “Is he part of this net or just riding the current?”

“Riding it,” Lydia says at once. “But he’ll take a shortcut if someone hands it to him. He’s angry enough to get sloppy. Sloppy makes noise. Noise brings friends you don’t want.”

“So if I move wrong, I bring a crowd.”

“You don’t have to move wrong to bring a crowd,” she says. “You just have to be interesting.”

I stare at the baton in my hand. I picture the courtyard behind the clinic. The note under my apartment door. The Civic’s dark glass. The towel under my fingers feels like a lie. I need clothes. Shoes. Something that tells my body it can run if it has to.

Lydia seems to read that thought. “Go get dressed. Jeans. Shoes you can sprint in. Nothing that needs adjusting to stay up. Put your hair in something a hand can’t grab.”

“You’re not leaving?”

“I’m in until he gets back.” She taps the tablet awake again. “And if he’s smarter than usual, he’ll text in five minutes to say he isn’t dead yet.”

I stand. Take one step. Stop. “Lydia.”

“Mm?”

“If Elias is letting them use me as bait, tell me now.”

Her eyes cut to mine. No flinch. No turn away. “He’s not letting them. He’s pretending he didn’t notice they already are. That’s different and not different enough.”

The honesty lands hard and clean. It knocks something steady into place that fear can’t move.

“Then I won’t be easy to follow,” I say.

Her mouth lifts. Not a smile. An approval. “Good girl,” she says, and for once it doesn’t feel like a leash. It feels like a weapon I get to keep.

I turn toward the hallway and the bedroom that still smells like him. The towel loosens when I move. The mirror waits, skewed. I will fix it. I will dress. And if the net tightens again, I will cut it where it pulls.

The mirror on the dresser catches me again when I step into the bedroom. The glass still tilts from when Elias shoved me into it earlier. My reflection bends at the edges, my face fractured in ways that make me look like someone else entirely. A warning or a truth—I can’t tell which.

I pull the towel tighter until it chafes my ribs, then let it drop to the floor. My skin prickles in the cool air. He left marks—his hands, his belt, his mouth. They bloom like proof across my shoulders and thighs. I press my palm against one and feel the ache push back. Not shame. Not exactly pride either. Just a reminder of where I stand, what I’ve let in.

The closet is curated to his taste, not mine. Hangers with dark clothes, simple cuts, fabrics that cling more than I’m used to. No soft cottons or faded sweaters. No color. Even the jeans are precise, black or charcoal, like everything should match his mood. I pick a pair that fits snug against my hips, then a plaintank, one that won’t tangle if I have to run. Sneakers from the bottom rack—he must have placed them there for me. Not brand new, but clean, broken in enough to feel like I can sprint if it comes to that.

I gather my hair into a braid, tugging it tight so it can’t be yanked free. The act feels like armor. Small, but deliberate.