Page 261 of Fractured Loyalties

The apartment is quiet when Dom’s voice has faded into nothing but memory. The only sound left is the scratch of Mara’s pen moving across her notes, the soft rustle of clinic papers as she files them into neat stacks. She looks at peace in a way I never thought she’d allow herself—barefoot, hair loose, glasses perched low on her nose. Ordinary on the surface. Mine beneath it.

I cross the room and stand over her shoulder. She doesn’t startle anymore when I come close. She tilts her head, waiting.

“Another patient intake?” I ask.

“Two. One referred by Alec, one walk-in.” She taps the folder. “I told Celeste I’d take over this week’s scheduling. Easier for her.”

“You still plan to keep working there.”

Her eyes cut up to mine, steady. “Yes. That’s part of me you don’t get to take.”

I study her, the way she says it—without tremor, without asking permission. A line drawn, not as defiance but as choice. It stirs something in me sharper than pride.

“Then keep it,” I say.

She blinks, as if she didn’t expect me to grant it so cleanly. Then her lips curve, small and private. “I will.”

I rest my hand on the top sheet in her folder, pinning it to the table until her pen stills. “But here,” I murmur, “you belong to me.”

Her pupils widen, pulse jumping in her throat. “I know.”

“Say it.”

Her voice is quiet but firm. “I belong to you.”

The words sink into me like iron setting. They aren’t surrender. They’re a vow.

I press my mouth to her temple, lingering there long enough that the world narrows to that single contact. Then I slide my hand into her hair and tug lightly until her head tips back, forcing her eyes to mine.

“You chose this,” I remind her.

“I did.”

“And if it consumes you?”

“Then it consumes me,” she says, no hesitation. “At least I’ll know I wasn’t caged. I walked in with my eyes open.”

Something shifts inside me, a quiet quake I don’t let anyone else see. She has no idea how rare it is—for someone to face me and not mistake possession for chains. She knows the difference. And she still stays.

Later, when she’s put her papers away and the city settles into its midnight hum, I slide the pistol I took from Caleb onto the table between us. She freezes, recognizing it at once.

“This was his,” I say. “It’s yours now. You decide what to do with it.”

Her hand hovers before she finally picks it up. Her fingers curl around the grip, steady. She stares at it for a long moment, then sets it back down with a finality that tells me everything.

“I don’t need it,” she says. “I have you.”

The answer brands itself into me. I cover the gun with a cloth and lock it away. A relic, nothing more.

When I come back, she’s watching me with that unreadable calm that hides her storms. I take her hand and place it flat against my chest. My heart answers with a steady, brutal rhythm.

“Still here,” I tell her.

Her lips part. Her eyes soften. She leans into me until her forehead rests against mine. “Still here,” she echoes.

And for the first time in years, I believe in the words.

Not because the world is safe. It never will be.

Not because I am redeemed. I never will be.

But because she chose this darkness, chose me, and she isn’t running.

Her hand tightens in mine, and I know—whatever storms rise next, whatever fires burn—we will face them together.