Page 11 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

When I lean into him, it's not surrender.

It's gravity. The weight of everything unsaid pulling me toward the only steady thing in the room.

He doesn't speak, doesn't question—just lifts me as if the choice was already made.

His hold is sure, careful. Not possession. Not rescue. Just something in between.

His arms are steady, but my thoughts aren't.

The air inside the room is warmer than the hall, a subtle shift I only notice because everything else feels stark. The scent of him clings to my skin—not cologne, not sweat. Something darker. Subtle. Like cedar and something colder underneath, like iron.

He sets me down on the bed like he’s afraid I might crack.

I don’t.

I sit upright as soon as the mattress catches me, legs crossed, hands folded. Too composed. Too neutral. Like I’m trying not to leave any fingerprints on this moment.

Elias kneels briefly in front of the small trunk at the end of the bed and pulls out a folded blanket. Wool. Gray. He offers it to me without a word.

"Thanks," I say. My voice is too quiet.

He nods, but doesn’t move to leave. Not yet.

I watch him. Or try to. The light in here is soft—not dim, just enough to keep his face partly in shadow.

Everything in this house is deliberate. I’m starting to realize that. He doesn’t live in clutter or distraction. There’s not a single thing out of place.

Except maybe me.

I adjust the blanket across my lap, suddenly cold.

Elias speaks. "If you want me to go, I will."

I don't answer right away. I know what the smart thing to do is. Ask him to leave. Shut the door. Sleep alone.

But the word won’t come. Because I don’t want to be alone. Not now. Not when the truth of who he is pulses just beneath my skin, sharp and live, like an exposed wire too near water.

"No," I say finally. "Stay. Just not…there. Not on the bed."

His eyes flick to the lounge chair in the corner. Without a word, he crosses the room and sits.

We both listen to the silence until it stops feeling like a test.

I breathe in slowly.

Then I say the one thing that’s been sitting on my chest like a stone since he first touched me. "I don't know if I trust you yet."

His gaze doesn’t waver. "I wouldn't trust me either."

He says it without apology. Without shame. Just fact.

And that, weirdly, makes it worse.

He doesn’t ask why I wanted him to stay.

He doesn’t shift or fidget or attempt to fill the quiet with idle comfort. He just sits there, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, the way someone might if they were settling in for a chess match—or a confession.

I should be the one sleeping. Or at least trying to. But instead, I find myself curled under the blanket with my back against the headboard, eyes fixed on him like I’m afraid he’ll vanish if I blink.

“I’m scared,” I say. And it’s the most honest thing I’ve spoken since I arrived.

“I know.”

“I don’t think it’ll ever stop.”

“You’re wrong.”

I look up.

Elias leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Fear’s a reflex. It feels permanent when it isn’t. Eventually, something else will push harder—anger, hunger, want. Something else always does.”

“Is that how it worked for you?”

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s still working.”

There’s something about the way he says it that cracks open a part of me I didn’t realize was still buried. I should be repulsed by the violence that lives under his skin.

I should question the way his world orbits mine so suddenly. But instead, all I can think about is the shape of his mouth. The way it wraps around words like he’s choosing each one with care.

He stands slowly, not toward me, just to stretch. His shirt shifts slightly, revealing a trace of ink along his ribs—some kind of lettering I can’t quite read.

I stare too long.

He notices.

But he doesn’t move to cover it.

“You should sleep,” he says softly.

I nod, but make no move to lie down.

He waits another moment before returning to the chair.

The lights are low now. The room has a quiet weight to it, as if even the air is holding its breath.

I close my eyes as sleep takes me under.

And for the first time in weeks, I don’t dream of Caleb’s voice.

I dream of Elias’s silence.

_____________________________________________________________

I wake before the sky begins to pale outside the window, the room still washed in the soft gray of pre-dawn.

I lie still, unsure if I’ve slept at all or just hovered in that gray place between exhaustion and awareness. The room is quiet. Elias’s chair is empty.

Panic doesn’t rise. Not yet. Instead, a strange chill presses at the edges of my skin—a hollow ache that blooms in the absence of him.

Then I hear it: the distant sound of movement beyond the guest room door, not loud. Just a presence.

I sit up slowly, every muscle stiff from sleeping half-upright. My fingers smooth the edge of the wool blanket. I notice the throw pillow on the floor beside the chair. He used it.

The man who stood like a wall between me and chaos…slept on a damn pillow beside my bed.

My throat tightens.

I slide from the bed, feet cold against the floor, and pad to the door. I open it an inch, just enough to hear the soft rustle of paper, the quiet clink of ceramic against granite.

Coffee.

I step out, cautiously. The hallway is already beginning to glow with the faintest hint of early light—soft, diffused, not yet strong enough to declare morning. This house absorbs silence like it was built to muffle the world.

Elias is in the kitchen.

He's wearing a black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms. A watch gleams faintly beneath the cuff. His back is to me, but I see the tension in his shoulders. The restraint. The calculation.

“Are you always this quiet in the morning?” I ask.

He turns.

And smiles.

He gestures to the mug in his hand, then to the one resting on the counter beside him. “Made you one. It’s strong.”

I cross the kitchen slowly, bare feet silent on the cool wood. When I reach the counter, I pick up the mug—both hands around it for warmth more than caffeine. My fingers brush his. He doesn’t move.

“Thanks,” I say. Then I take a sip. It’s rich. Bitter. Ground with intention. Like everything else he touches.

He studies me for a moment. Not the way most men do—scanning or evaluating. He watches me like he’s waiting for me to say something I haven’t decided on yet.

I shift my weight and nod toward the windows. “It’s beautiful out there.”

The view spills open across the back wall: pale cliffs in the distance, low morning mist clinging to the horizon, the ocean beyond it rolling slow and constant. I wonder what it must feel like to own this much stillness.

“It’s the only thing that quiets my head,” he says, joining me at the edge of the glass.

We stand in silence. Not awkward, but tentative. Like we’re trying not to disturb the fragile thread spun between last night and whatever this morning is supposed to be.

I speak first. “You said you rarely sleep.”

He nods. “My mind doesn’t know when to shut off.”

“And last night?”

“I didn’t sleep,” he says. “I just…listened to you breathe.”

It should be unnerving. It should make my spine lock and my instincts scream.

But instead, I feel heat crawl across my collarbone, low and slow.

“Do you always watch people like that?”

“Only you.”

I look down into my coffee. “You really need to work on your filters when saying things like that.”

His voice lowers. “You really don’t want me to.”

I glance up, meet his eyes. The air shifts.

I want to change the subject. I need to. So I ask the one question I’ve been circling since yesterday.

“What happens now?”

He leans against the counter. “Now we let Caleb show his hand.”

My jaw tightens. “He always has the advantage. He plays dirty.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“And what about when he does show up?”

“Then I'll end it.”

Three words. Unapologetic. Quietly lethal.

I don’t ask how. I don’t need to. I believe him.

Still, something about his certainty unnerves me.

“You’ve done this before,” I say.

It’s not a question.

He doesn’t lie. “Yes.”

I sip my coffee to keep from asking anything else. Elias watches me over the rim of his mug.

“You’re not scared of me anymore,” he says.

I tilt my head. “No. Not exactly.”

“What changed?”

“You told me the truth,” I say. “And then you stayed.”

His jaw tics slightly. “You don’t know all of it.”

“I know enough.”

He nods once, like that’s both a warning and a reward.

Then: “You’ll have to call in sick today.”

I blink. “What?”

“I won’t keep you here, Mara, but if you leave now, it makes you vulnerable.”

I open my mouth to argue. Close it again.

Because he’s right.

“I’ll text Celeste,” I murmur.

He steps away, giving me space. I watch him move, every inch of him composed but alert. Coiled in some way I haven’t unraveled yet.

This man doesn’t sleep. He listens. He calculates. He protects.

And he’s dangerous.

But he stayed.

I send the text to Celeste with a practiced lie: something about a stomach bug and a restless night. It’s vague, non-dramatic—just enough to keep suspicion at bay.

Elias doesn’t look at me while I type. He gives me the dignity of distance. That, or he already knows exactly what I said.

I set my phone down and wrap both hands around the mug again. It’s cooling now, but I don’t let go.

“What are we waiting for?” I ask.

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“For Caleb to react,” Elias says. “He will. The silence won’t last.”

My throat tightens. “So this is bait.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“And I’m the lure.”

His gaze cuts to mine—sharp and immediate. “No. You’re the reason he’s going to get careless. There’s a difference.”

I want to challenge that. I want to argue semantics. But instead I ask, “What do you get out of this?”

His answer is a long time coming. “Closure.”

That surprises me.

Not the word. The way he says it.

I nod slowly. “You’ve known men like him.”

“I’ve been one.”

The confession doesn’t land the way it probably should. I don’t flinch. I don’t even breathe differently. But something in me absorbs it.

I think about what he said before—that he doesn’t do anything halfway.

“You still haven’t told me what you do,” I say.

He smiles faintly. “Would you believe me if I said I used to be a consultant?”

“No.”

He chuckles. “I wouldn’t either.”

I step away from the counter, setting my mug in the sink, rinsing it out, needing something for my hands to do. “So now, we just wait here in your hideaway by the sea and hope he makes a mistake?”

“Yes.”

“Feels passive.”

“It’s not.”

I turn back to him. “You’re tracking him, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t deny it.

And that tells me everything.

I study his face carefully, trying to make sense of the calm threaded through his features. "So...when you finally do find him—what then?" I ask, softer this time, like I’m not sure I want the real answer.

Elias walks toward me, stops just short of close. “That depends on you.”

“Me?”

He nods. “This doesn’t end until you want it to. Or until he makes it impossible to wait.”

I stare up at him, trying to decode the thousand ways he could mean that.

I don’t get the chance.

Because his phone buzzes once. Then again. Then stops.

He pulls it out, checks the screen.

I watch the tension ripple through him, subtle but certain. Like an old wire pulled taut.

“What is it?” I ask.

Elias looks up.

His voice is calm. Too calm.

“He made a move.”

Elias pockets his phone, but his eyes stay on me. Reading me.

I feel my body go rigid. “What kind of move?”

He answers with a question of his own. “Do you still want to know everything?”

The question hangs there, and it’s not rhetorical. I nod.

“He was seen an hour ago near the southern inlet highway. Someone in my network flagged the vehicle.”

I picture the stretch of road—one that snakes down past the old fishing docks and dead-end rental cabins. Not far from the turn-off to Miramont. Not far from the clinic.

My stomach drops. “So he’s circling again.”

“He never stopped.”

My pulse thuds against my skin. “What now?”

Elias moves, walking toward the console desk along the wall. It’s built into the cabinetry, almost hidden. He keys in a code, and a screen slides upward. A digital map glows blue against the quiet room.

“You don’t need to be part of this,” he says, low. “You could stay here, wait it out. Let me deal with it.”

But I shake my head before he finishes. “No. I want to see.”

He studies me. Not just my words—but my resolve. Then nods once and switches the feed.

A grid of six cameras populates the screen. Most show empty terrain—gravel lots, coastal roads, quiet intersections. One shows a moving car. Caleb’s. I know it instantly. The old rust-colored pickup he never let go of.

“He’s not alone,” Elias murmurs.

I lean closer. There’s a passenger in the front seat, but I can’t make out his face.

“Who is that?”

Elias doesn’t reply immediately. “Could be one of two people. Doesn’t matter. Neither are friends.”

I look at him. “So this is it? You’re going after him?”

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

“When?”

He closes the screen gently. “Tonight.”

I go still. Every part of me wants to say good . Wants to say do it . But my mouth moves differently.

“Are you going to kill him?”

Silence.

Elias steps forward. Slowly. Not threatening, not even purposeful. Just…still.

“I’ll make sure he never comes near you again.”

It’s not an answer.

But I realize I don’t need one.