Page 4 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

The sound that wakes me isn’t the alarm. It’s my own breath. Sharp. Fast. Like I surfaced from somewhere deep and violent.

My sheets are twisted. Sweat slicks the base of my neck, dampens the hem of my sleep shirt. The room is dark but not silent. The faint creak from the pipes in the wall. A whisper of wind nosing against the window. I stare at the ceiling and try to remember what I saw.

Nothing comes clearly. Just shapes. Pressure. A hand gripping my wrist too tightly. A hallway with no door at the end.

I sit up too fast. My head throbs once, then steadies.

The clock says 5:11 a.m.

I throw off the blanket and swing my feet to the floor. The air is cold. I welcome it.

In the bathroom, the mirror greets me like it always does—accusing and familiar. I touch beneath my eyes. Purple shadows. I dab my face with water and try not to think.

But it presses in anyway.

Caleb. Not his voice, not his face, but the way he made the walls feel like they were closing in. That endless waiting for a blow that might not come but always could.

I swallow.

Routine. That’s the only way out of this fog.

I wash. Brush. Dress. Pull on black slacks, a fitted gray blouse. Neutral tones. Professional armor. Then I cross to the living room and check the locks.

Once. Twice. A third time, even though I already know it’s secure.

I stand with my hand on the doorknob for a full minute.

Then I leave.

The walk to the clinic is short, but I make it feel longer by rerouting twice. There’s no logic to it—just instinct. One street feels too open. Another has a parked car I don’t recognize. I end up cutting behind the bakery, even though it smells like scorched sugar and old yeast.

Cutting behind the bakery, I spot him again.

The same man from the café window, the one with the suit jacket too neatly draped, too precise for this neighborhood.

Crisp charcoal suits this time, posture as straight as before, his reflection sharp in the glass door of the pharmacy.

He buys a bottle of water, nothing remarkable, then walks out without a glance in my direction.

Still, his presence ripples through the air like static.

Coincidence, I tell myself. Small towns aren’t that small.

But the word doesn’t sit right in my throat.

When I arrive, the receptionist is already there, flipping through the intake logs. She gives me a polite smile. I return it, small and quick. No words.

Inside, everything is in its place. The clean smell of antiseptic and sea air. My office with its tidy corners, my bookshelf arranged by height and subject. I boot up the computer and go through emails, though I can’t read any of them properly. My eyes skim the text but absorb nothing.

Alec knocks lightly on the doorframe around 8:02. Always that same minute. He leans in, coffee in hand, sleeves rolled. Casual, like nothing in the world could possibly shake him.

“Morning,” he says, voice low but warm.

“Hi.” I adjust the angle of my monitor even though it doesn’t need adjusting.

“You sleep all right?”

The question lands sharper than it should. Something about the ease of it—the assumption that sleep is simple.

I try to answer, but my throat tightens. I shrug instead.

Alec doesn’t push. Just nods once. “We’ve got the Patterson intake at nine. Thought I’d give you a heads-up. She can be...chatty.”

I offer a soft laugh, and it sounds foreign to my own ears. “Thanks.”

He leaves, and I stare at the space where he was. Just standing there. Casual and safe and steady.

I close my eyes, just for a moment.

But instead of peace, something else comes.

The memory is sharp, uninvited. Caleb, cornering me in our old kitchen. The flicker of a vein in his neck. The smell of whiskey on his breath. The way his words came slowly, tightly, like he was counting them out one by one so he wouldn’t explode too soon.

“You think you’re better than me now?”

I open my eyes fast.

The room is the same. My hands are clenched.

I push back from the desk and stand.

Restroom. I need the restroom.

I step into the restroom and lock the door behind me. The click feels louder than it should. Echoed. Final.

The light is bright here, almost sterile. The mirror spans half the wall above the sink, and I hate it. It forces me to look when I want to disappear.

I grip the porcelain and breathe. In. Out. Repeat.

But it doesn’t work.

The air feels thinner than it should. My heartbeat is too loud. My palms sweat against the cool sink.

The memory isn’t fading. It’s flowering.

Caleb, slamming a cupboard door hard enough that a glass jumped and shattered. The sound of his voice when he went quiet—that was always worse than the shouting. It meant he was winding up. Rehearsing the pain in his head first before letting it out.

He didn’t need fists to make me bleed.

He used silence. Manipulation. The way he’d tilt his head and smile with just enough teeth to make me question everything I remembered.

My stomach tightens.

I turn the faucet on just to hear something else. Cold water rushes out. I splash my face, again and again, until my skin stings and my vision clears.

When I finally look up, I barely recognize myself.

My blouse is wrinkled. My lips pale. There’s a sheen on my forehead I hadn’t noticed. But it’s my eyes that catch me. Wide. Lost. The kind of look prey gets before it bolts.

I press trembling fingers to my temples.

"You’re fine," I whisper. "He’s not here."

But I don’t believe it.

I can’t.

There’s a knock on the restroom door.

Soft. Careful.

“Mara?” It’s Celeste. Her voice is low, unobtrusive, like she’s not sure if she should be speaking at all.

I swallow and quickly dab my face dry with the sleeve of my blouse. “Yeah. One second.”

Just to keep up pretense, I flush the toilet, even though I didn’t use it, and I unlock the door. She’s standing there in a navy cardigan, arms loose at her sides, gaze kind but searching.

“You okay?” she asks. Not intrusive. Just enough room in the question for me to say no or yes or nothing at all.

“I’m fine,” I lie. My voice is hoarse.

Celeste doesn’t believe me, but she doesn’t challenge it. She just tilts her head slightly and says, “All right. Come find me if you want to talk, okay?”

I nod. “Thanks.”

She turns and walks down the hallway, heels soft against the tile. The moment she’s out of sight, I exhale for what feels like the first time in minutes.

The rest of the day blurs. I see patients. Smile where I should. Nod, take notes, say the right things. My body runs on rote memory while my mind pulses somewhere else entirely.

Late afternoon, as I’m organizing case notes at my desk, something pulls at me.

A sound? A presence?

I glance out the window toward the street. Parked half a block down is a black car. Not unfamiliar. Not close enough to be alarming. But not where it should be.

My stomach turns.

I try to focus again. Numbers. Files. Paper. But I can’t unsee it.

The moment the last patient leaves and the front door clicks shut behind them, I let the mask fall. My hands are shaking.

I walk to the window and peer out from behind the blinds. The car is still there. Same angle. Same unnatural stillness. It hasn’t moved.

I stare at it longer than I should.

Nothing happens.

But that’s worse somehow. The waiting. The not knowing.

I force myself to gather my things. Bag. Notebook. Keys. Every item a step in a ritual I rely on more than I admit. By the time I step outside, the air has cooled. The sky bruises near the edges, and the wind off the sea tastes of iron and salt.

I don't look directly at the car. But I feel it there. Not watching, exactly. Just...waiting. A weight on the edge of my awareness.

I take the long route home. Past the grocer, down the alley that runs behind the flower shop. Every footstep becomes a question. Every shadow another possibility.

By the time I reach my building, my pulse is thudding. I unlock the front door and climb the stairs too fast. I don’t breathe until I’m inside.

Then the locks.

One.

Two.

Three.

I check the windows. All latched.

I pull the curtains tight.

I shower, eat half a banana, and crawl into bed without turning on the television. The silence is safer.

But sleep doesn’t come quickly. My eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, then the door, then the window.

When I do finally drift off, it’s shallow and uneasy.