Page 19 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

The restaurant smells like basil, wine, and candle smoke trying too hard to be warm.

I step inside like I’m not made of tension.

Like there wasn’t a note waiting on my desk this morning. Like Elias didn’t try to talk me out of coming here.

Celeste waves me over. Her smile is real, but her eyes move quickly, checking me like she’s counting vertebrae.

I reach the table and pull out a chair. The others greet me like nothing’s off. Small talk. Laugh lines. Glasses are already half full.

Alec leans back in his seat. “You made it.”

“Barely,” I say, forcing a small grin.

“We were about to order drinks,” Celeste says, handing me a menu. “Want anything?”

“Club soda. Lime.”

“Not drinking?” Alec arches a brow.

“Headache,” I lie.

He nods, easy. No pressure. Still, I feel like I’m under lights.

The room is all exposed brick and string lights. Every wall is a window. Every seat faces somewhere vulnerable. I sit where my back’s against a corner beam. I can see the entrance, the servers, the mirrors angled behind the bar.

There are eight of us total. Admin, tech, Celeste, Alec, and a few from the counseling wing. Normal enough. But my skin itches like there’s something else here. Like static just under my pulse.

Alec starts talking about a new software integration project, and someone chimes in about shifting appointment load across departments. The words blur. I sip my club soda like it’s a sedative.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I don’t look. But I know it’s him.

The club soda sweats against my fingers like it knows something I don’t.

Celeste laughs at something across the table—too loud, too fast—and I echo it with a smile that doesn't touch anything important.

I glance at the drink again. Lime wedge floating like a surrender flag. I don't pick it up this time. My hands are too still.

Across from me, Alec is explaining something to the tech assistant—something about vendor turnover rates and sourcing reliable suppliers for diagnostic equipment. His voice is smooth, but my focus isn’t on the words.

It’s on the way his arm brushes the back of Celeste’s chair when he shifts. The way his fingers tap once, twice on the rim of his glass before he speaks. It’s casual. Familiar. But everything tonight feels like it’s been calibrated with just enough pressure to seem harmless.

There’s a mirror behind him, angled above the bar.

In it, I can see the front windows. The door. The street.

But I can’t see Elias.

And that unsettles me more than if I could.

Because I know he’s there. I feel it in the hairs on my neck. In the pulse just beneath my jaw. In the way the air on my skin feels thicker than it should in a building full of flickering votives and warm bodies.

"Hey," Celeste says, leaning in. Her voice is softer now, a thread meant only for me. "You doing okay?"

I nod too quickly. "Yeah. Just...overstimulated."

She gives a knowing smile, but her eyes flick briefly to my neck again. I resist the urge to adjust my collar.

"Glad you came," she says. "I wasn’t sure you would."

"I almost didn’t."

She studies me for a beat, then smirks slightly. "You know, this is supposed to be a team dinner—but I was secretly hoping you’d drag your 'drop dead gorgeous' along anyway. For morale. Maybe let us bask in his ‘yes-I-might-bury-a-body for Mara’ jawline."

I cover my mouth to keep the laugh from spilling. "Celeste."

"What? You can’t bring someone like that into the clinic and then act like we’re not all going to talk about it."

I shake my head, but there’s warmth behind the eye-roll.

"You’re impossible," I murmur.

"And you’re selfish. You have a tall, dark, broody shadow with cheekbones that could punch God—and you don’t even share."

I give her foot a nudge under the table. "Stop."

“I think he’d be an excellent addition to Human Resources.”

“And by ‘resources’ you mean…?”

“Visual morale.”

“You’re the worst,” I say, shaking my head.

“I’m the best. You’re just afraid to admit it.” She grins and leans back, smug and satisfied. "Just saying, if you ever decide to accidentally lock him in the break room for an hour, I call first dibs."

I laugh again—softer this time, but it feels like something real.

She lets it hang there; she doesn’t press further. Just watches me, eyes dancing like she knows more than she’s saying.

A waiter arrives, balancing appetizers like offerings. Plates are set, napkins adjusted. Small thank-yous spill across the table like rehearsed cues. I smile when I’m supposed to. Nod when I’m expected to.

But I can feel something watching me. Not just him. Something behind it. Like a presence has nested in the seams of my awareness and is waiting to see what I’ll do next.

My phone vibrates again.

I slide a hand into my pocket, thumb brushing the volume rocker. I don’t pull it out.

Because if I do, I’ll look for him.

If I look for him, I’ll find him.

And if I find him, I’ll leave.

So I stay.

Alec raises a toast—something about team cohesion, about surviving the quarter. Everyone lifts their glasses. I lift mine.

When I drink, the lime hits my lip first. Bitter. Clean. Sharp.

It grounds me.

For three seconds, I’m just a girl with a drink and coworkers and a sore jaw from pretending nothing hurts.

Then I look up—and see something in the window.

A reflection.

Not Elias.

Something else.

A man standing still. Not close. But not far. One foot inside the halo of a streetlamp, the other in shadow. A ballcap low over his eyes.

He’s not watching the window.

He’s watching the mirror.

He’s watching me.

My pulse skips.

And when I blink, he’s gone.

Not turned. Not moved.

Just—gone.

I set the drink down, careful. My spine is too straight now. My legs feel like they remember a different room, a different fight.

Celeste catches the change in my posture. "Hey," she says. "You sure you’re all right?"

I swallow. "Bathroom," I say. "Just need a second."

She nods, distracted by the new round of conversation.

I stand.

The floor shifts slightly underfoot—either the wine in everyone else’s system or the sudden absence of breath in mine.

I don’t go to the bathroom.

I head for the side hallway that leads to the coat alcove. There’s a window there—small, square, meant for ventilation more than light. I pull out my phone.

One new message.

Elias: The man in the hat—gone. Couldn’t follow.

I type fast.

Mara: I saw him. Just for a second. Then he vanished.

Elias: He wasn’t alone.

My heart lands somewhere behind my ribs and stays there.

I grip the phone tighter, then tuck it away and stare out the narrow window like it might give me answers.

But it only shows me the dark.

The window gives me nothing. Just a pane of reflection and a thickness in my chest that feels like it belongs to someone else.

I step back. Slow. Controlled. Like any sudden movement might alert something I can’t name.

My fingers curl around my phone again. Not to text. Just to feel the weight of it. I let my thumb skim over the last message.

He wasn’t alone.

He never is.

I step out of the hallway and back into the main dining room, smoothing the tension from my face like it’s makeup I can wipe off. But I know I don’t pull it off. Not fully.

Alec notices.

His eyes track me as I return to my seat. He doesn’t ask, but his mouth presses into something too careful to be casual.

The table’s a little louder now. More wine has been poured.

The girls from admin are recounting a patient story with a sharp turn—something about a therapy dog and a badly timed allergic reaction.

Everyone laughs too loud at the punchline, like they’re trying to make the moment stretch wider than it wants to go.

I smile. Or something like it.

Alec leans toward me slightly. “Are you sure you’re good?”

I nod. “The bathroom was just loud. The lights were weird.”

He doesn’t buy it. But he lets it go.

Celeste slides a plate toward me, piled with something green and roasted. “You missed the chaos,” she says. “I swear, if Josh spills one more thing on his lap, I’m filing a claim.”

I murmur a soft thanks and pick up my fork.

But my eyes flick to the window again. The mirror. The door.

Nothing.

Nothing but Elias, out there somewhere, watching with a stillness I can almost feel. And if there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that silence isn’t absence. It’s a strategy.

Alec reaches for the wine bottle, refills his own glass. “So,” he says, looking right at me, “who was the guy?”

The room shifts.

Celeste stiffens for half a second.

I freeze mid-bite.

“Earlier today,” he adds, too lightly. “Security said some guy came in asking for you. Tall, serious. Not the type we usually get unless someone’s delivering subpoenas or making threats.”

I set down my fork.

Celeste snorts. “Oh, that guy? Come on. He was giving more ‘avenging angel’ than legal courier.”

One of the admins perks up. “Wait, the hot one with the ridiculous jawline and the long coat that screamed ‘I own secrets’? That guy?”

Alec raises an eyebrow at me. “So we’re all pretending this wasn’t a thing?”

I tilt my head, keep my voice level. “He’s a friend.”

“Doesn’t look like any of my friends,” someone mutters into their wine.

I lean forward, just enough to take the tension back. “Then maybe you need new friends.”

Laughter bubbles around the table, but Alec doesn’t laugh. He just watches me with that maddening steadiness of his. Like he’s reading beneath the words.

And for once, I let him.

Let him see how sharp my edges are tonight.

Let him guess why.

The noise returns. Small jokes. More toasts. Forks scraping plates. But it all feels a beat too fast, like someone’s drumming on my spine with an off rhythm.

And that’s when the door opens.

I don’t look immediately. I don’t have to.

I feel the change in the room before I hear the footsteps.

One of the host staff calls out a name. It’s not anyone at our table. Someone in the back waves.

But a different figure crosses my peripheral vision.

Too slow. Too smooth.