Page 39 of Fractured Loyalties

He doesn’t answer. Just holds out his hand.

And I take it.

The drive is short. Twenty minutes, maybe. But the road feels longer, carved through thick woods and deep curves. The kind of stretch that swallows sound.

Elias doesn’t speak, but the tension in his jaw says everything. I steal glances at him as the trees blur past. He’s locked in, like a weapon being drawn slow.

We pull up to a clearing, where a cabin squats low against the earth, built of old wood and newer steel reinforcements. It looks temporary. Functional.

I follow him inside.

The interior is cold. Spartan. A table. Two chairs. One cot. A black duffel bag rests on the floor, half-zipped. Inside, I glimpse the edge of a holster, a burner phone, rolls of tape, a flask.

My stomach knots.

Elias crouches beside the bag and starts packing deliberately.

“I used to come here to disappear,” he says without looking up. “Before I stopped pretending that I could.”

I lean against the wall. I point at the duffel, voice quieter now. “You’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you?”

Elias doesn’t flinch. “Since before you ever saw me.”

The admission hits harder than I expect.

“And you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“I told you what mattered,” he says evenly. “And I never lied.”

He zips the bag closed. Stands. Meets my eyes.

“I needed to know who you were before I stepped into your world. And who he was to you.”

I should feel violated. I should feel tricked. But all I feel is exposed.

“And now?” I ask.

“Now I don’t care what you were to him. I only care what he tried to take.”

The weight of that sentence drops like a stone between us.

I follow him out, my steps quieter than my pulse. The door clicks shut behind us with the finality of something more than wood.

Outside, the forest is starting to dim. The sky, layered in amber and slate, filters through the branches overhead. I watch the light leave his face as we move toward the car. It’s like watching the last warmth bleed from a wound.

He tosses the duffel into the trunk with practiced economy. I notice the license plate on this car isn’t the same as before. I don’t ask.

He doesn’t speak until we’re back on the road.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says without looking at me.

I say nothing.

“You still want to come with me.”

It’s not a question. And I don’t need to answer.

He exhales through his nose, quiet, like he’s bracing himself for something more painful than the night ahead.