Page 14 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

The tea she made is cold now. She hasn’t touched it in a while.

We’ve barely spoken. Just words hanging like unfinished thoughts. She sits on the couch beside me, legs tucked beneath her, a quiet presence that’s steadier than I deserve.

When I told her, “I did it for you.”

She didn't even flinch. She gave a nod, once. “Good.”

The word settles between us like an ending. Or a beginning.

Her eyes searched mine like she’s already known this, has known it longer than I’ve admitted it to myself. That should terrify me. It doesn’t. What terrifies me is how much of me she’s already seen—and how much I still want to protect what little image I think I have left.

I rise slowly, the weight of the last twelve hours clinging to every tendon. “I need a minute,” I say. My voice is quiet, controlled. But my jaw aches from how long I’ve held it clenched.

She doesn’t ask questions.

She just watches me walk away.

I close the door to my bedroom behind me and exhale slowly through my nose.

The quiet here feels different. Less like calm and more like judgment.

I move toward the ensuite, strip with mechanical precision, and step into the shower. The water is too hot at first, scalding across my skin, but I don’t adjust it. I let it burn.

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.”

She blinks. “I’m not afraid of you, Elias.”

“I need to step out,” I say then. The words fall too suddenly, like they’ve been sitting on my tongue waiting for a reason.

She tenses. “Where?”

“I have to tie up a few things. It won’t take long. But I need you to stay here. Doors locked. Lights off.”

Her brows draw together, voice low. “Is something wrong?”

“Not yet,” I reply. “And I want to keep it that way.”

She stares at me like she wants to argue. But doesn’t.

“Will you tell me if something is?”

“I’ll do more than that,” I promise.

She nods once.

“Get some sleep if you can.”

She doesn’t reply.

But when I stand, she reaches for my hand.

I let her.

I stay there a moment longer, her fingers warm against mine, her grip uncertain but present. Then, gently, I try to ease my hand free.

“I’ll be back soon.”

She nods but doesn’t let go until I make her. Her eyes linger as I step out of the room, quietly pulling the door closed behind me.

Back in the hallway, I secure the perimeter—checking locks, windows, sightlines. Habit. Ritual. But necessary.

Then I head for the garage.

The car hums to life beneath my hands, and the road peels away in silence. I drive without music. Without distraction.

Somewhere between the second bend and the off-ramp, I send a message to Lydia:

Start tracking Caleb round the clock. Full digital sweep. Habits. Associates. Movement. Anything recent. Meet me at the Southpoint hold.

Her reply is instant: On it. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.

I take a less-traveled route through the industrial zone, parking beside a faceless gray building that doesn’t exist on any public record. Inside, it’s sterile—white walls, low halogen lights, silence. A place built for silence.

Lydia’s already there, seated at a folding table beside a bank of monitors.

“You look like hell,” she says.

“Feel worse.”

She tosses a tablet onto the table. “Burner phones. A flagged wire transfer from a shell corp linked to Alan Strane—a fixer. And these.”

“This is escalating,” I say.

“No shit,” Lydia responds as she studies me. Long and level. “You’re too close to this.”

I don’t respond.

“You’re not protecting her anymore. You’re claiming her.”

“And?”

Lydia narrows her eyes at me. "Does it matter how you do it, as long as the threat’s gone?"

I meet her gaze evenly. "I don’t care."

She doesn’t answer. But her frown carves deeper into her face, like she’s seeing something she doesn't want to name.

By midnight, the weight of the day is a fucking vise on my chest, a restless hunger clawing for release.

I leave Lydia to her glowing screens, her world of endless feeds, and slip into the night.

Backroads twist under my tires, leading to the husk of a hidden opera house, its faded grandeur swallowed by shadow.

No lights. No sign. Just an unmarked door, heavy with secrets.

Discentra.

Inside, the air hits me like a lover’s breath—thick with the musk of leather, the sharp sting of candle wax, and the raw, metallic edge of desire. The low, throbbing pulse of electronic bass hums beneath the floor, a primal heartbeat setting the rhythm of this hidden world.

Shadows cling to the walls, broken by the glint of mirrors and the flicker of masked figures gliding through the haze. This is where pretense is fucked away, where masks reveal more than they hide.

Dominic Hale—Dom—stands behind the bar, a goddamn king in his shadowed domain. Old money and darker appetites carved into his sharp edges, he holds a lowball glass, amber liquid catching the dim light. That amused, knowing curve of his lips greets me, a silent nod to my return.

“You’re haunting my corridors again,” he says, voice low, a velvet blade.

“Temporary,” I shoot back, holding his gaze.

He raises a brow, cutting through the bullshit. “You needed a mirror.”

It’s not flattery, not a jab—just raw truth, sharp as a scalpel. Dom sees through the masks I wear elsewhere, knows I’m not here for cheap thrills or empty fucks. I’ve come to face myself, to let this place strip me bare, where ritual and rules reflect what I’ve buried.

I nod, once.

He tilts his glass toward the corridor, shadows beckoning. “Pick a room. Red for pain. Black for pleasure. White if you just want to watch.”

I choose white.

The chamber is a sanctuary of silence and velvet, its walls swallowing sound and secrets.

The leather armchair claims me, its cool embrace sinking into my skin, carrying the faint scent of aged smoke and disciplined restraint.

I settle in, my pulse syncing with the bass vibrating through the floor, the world narrowing to the one-way glass before me—a portal to my own fucking truth.

On the other side, a woman stands, bare except for long silk cuffs that gleam against her wrists and a black velvet blindfold that cloaks her eyes. Her body is a fucking masterpiece, her spine a perfect arc, her chin tilted in poised submission.

Every curve is a testament to control, her skin glowing under the dim light, nipples already hard with anticipation. She’s a canvas of restraint, her stillness a quiet offering to the ritual about to unfold.

Her Dominant emerges from the shadows, a figure carved from darkness and intent.

Tall, masked, his sharp-cut black shirt clings to his lean frame like a lover, every muscle taut with purpose.

He moves with predatory grace, silent, needing no words to own the space.

A soft snap of his fingers cuts through the quiet, and she sinks to her knees, fluid and graceful, her body unfolding like a goddamn prayer.

There’s no fear in her—just the intimacy of trust, her obedience a fucking gift. Her breath deepens as he circles her, his presence a gravitational pull. She arches toward him, craving his touch before it lands, her body attuned to his unspoken commands.

His fingers graze her collarbone, a whisper of contact that lingers at the pulse hammering in her throat—not a grip, but a claim, a reminder of who owns this moment.

A soft moan escapes her, reverent, the sound hitting me like a shot of whiskey, burning straight to my core.

He binds her wrists with the silk cuffs, deft fingers weaving them into a hooked chain dangling from the ceiling.

Her arms stretch upward, her body elongating, breasts lifting with each breath, a faint sheen of sweat catching the flicker of candles.

Her breath hitches as the chain pulls taut, her pussy glistening faintly in the low light, her submission a quiet power etched in every line of her form.

Each move is ritual, deliberate, a dance of control and consent. His hand trails down her spine, slow, igniting shivers that ripple across her skin. She leans into his touch, her lips parting in a soft, “Fuck,” that’s half-plea, half-worship.

He answers with a leather crop, its tip brushing her inner thigh—a tease, not a strike—drawing a gasp that hangs in the air like smoke.

The crop traces her curves, lingering at the swell of her ass, leaving faint red trails—not from pain, but from the heat of her own desire.

She sways in the chains, her body a taut string humming under his command.

The air thickens, charged with their unspoken hunger. His control is absolute, but it’s her willingness that fucking binds them, her trust sharpening every touch. He steps closer, his breath hot against her ear as he murmurs something too soft for me to hear.

Her body responds instantly, a shiver cascading down her frame, her lips parting in a silent cry.

The crop falls away, his hand taking its place, fingers curling possessively around her hip, pulling her ass against his groin.

The chain clinks softly above, her body swaying in its hold, her submission a fucking beacon in the dark.

Her breath quickens, her skin flushed, the blindfold heightening every sensation. His fingers slide between her thighs. She moans, louder now, a raw, “Oh, fuck,” that vibrates through the glass and into my chest.

He teases her slowly, his fingers circling, stroking, drawing out every shudder as her hips buck, chasing his hand. The air pulses with their rhythm, a symphony of trust and power, each movement a vow renewed.

My cock stirs, straining against my pants, but this isn’t about my pleasure—it’s about the mirror they hold up, the truth they reflect. Their dance is my own hunger laid bare: the need for control, the ache to surrender to something greater than chaos. The mask. The silence. The unshakable command.

My fingers tighten around the complimentary glass left in the room, it comes with the package, like a little souvenir to set the mood, the amber liquid trembling. This is what I understand: who I am beneath the man Mara sees, beneath the weight of the world I carry.

The scene intensifies. His fingers move with purpose now, sliding inside her as she gasps, her head falling back. “Please,” she breathes, her voice a raw edge of want, her thighs parting wider, inviting more.

He presses harder, his other hand gripping her ass, guiding her rhythm as she rides his touch, her moans filling the room like a fucking hymn. The chain clinks above, her body trembling, every inch of her alive under his command.

I lean forward, my breath shallow, caught in the gravity of their dance.

This is balance. This is truth—a reflection unclouded by lies or excuses.

Her skin is flushed, her body swaying in the chains, her release building as his fingers drive her higher, her cries sharper, more desperate.

His touch is both anchor and flame, grounding her even as it sets her alight.

Later, Dom slips into the room, his presence a quiet intrusion.

He leans against the far wall, his eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and something sharper—disappointment, maybe, that I’m only chasing this reflection.

His gaze is a challenge: Will you stay in the shadows, or step into your own fucking light?

I don’t answer. Not yet.

The glass in my hand is empty, but the mirror before me is full, reflecting a truth I’m not ready to leave behind.

“I hear whispers,” he says, voice low but razor-edged. “That you’ve gotten yourself entangled with a woman.”

I don’t respond.

Dom pushes off the wall, steps deeper into the room, the low light catching the sharpness of his profile. “You? The man who taught half this room what restraint meant? Now letting some girl see behind the curtain?”

I meet his gaze. “It’s not what you think.”

His laugh is short and dark. “No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re forgetting the rules. Our rules.”

He lets the silence stretch just long enough before speaking again.

“She isn’t yours,” he says, quieter now. More certain. Like a warning.

I don’t argue.

“And if you keep pretending you can compartmentalize this, she’ll tear that mask off you.”

“She already has,” I admit.

Dom’s smile fades. “Then you better decide which version of you survives the fall.”

I say nothing. But I hear every word.

I leave Discentra before the clock hits two, the bitter taste of truth thick on my tongue.