Page 45 of Fractured Loyalties

My hands press against the tile, head bowed under the stream. The image of Caleb’s face under my knee won’t leave me. His grin. His fucking grin.

I almost gave in.

Not because it was justice. Not even because he deserved it. But because I wanted to. Because I needed to see him bleed.

That’s the part I haven’t said aloud.

That’s the part I can’t let her see again.

I stay there until the steam fogs the mirrors and the sting on my skin dulls into numbness.

When I step out, I dry off, change into black joggers and a plain fitted tee, then move to the cabinet near the dresser. I pour a couple fingers of bourbon into a short glass and drink half in one tilt.

It burns, but less than the water.

When I step back into the hallway, the living room is empty. Her mug’s still there. The blanket on the couch folded. The silence is familiar now, but not empty. Her absence lingers.

I don’t have to look far.

The soft sound of her door clicking shut gives her away.

I pause outside it, knock once. Quiet. Measured.

“It's just me.”

No answer.

I wait.

Then her voice. Soft, uncertain. “Come in.”

The room is dim. She hasn’t turned on the light.

She sits near the headboard, legs pulled close, one arm draped over her knees. She’s wearing one of my spare sweaters—something from the guest closet, soft and oversized, like she reached for the first thing that didn’t belong to her.

I stay near the door for a beat, letting her feel the space between us.

“I wanted to check on you,” I say.

“I’m okay,” she replies.

She’s lying.

“I know what I looked like back there,” I say. “And I know how it must’ve felt to watch it happen.”

She looks away. Not down—just away. Toward the window, toward the dark that hasn’t changed since we got back.

“You were protecting me.”

I nod once. “That doesn’t excuse the way I lost control.”

Her eyes flick back to mine. “But you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. I shouldn't have let you witness that.”

A long silence stretches. Then I walk farther in, slow, deliberate. I sit on the edge of the bed, not close enough to crowd her, just close enough to mean it.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” I say quietly. “But I know that won’t mean anything if I don’t act like someone you can trust. Not just someone who can kill for you.”