Page 5 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

She hasn’t turned off her bedroom light.

I sit across the street in the dark, engine off, mirror tilted just enough to frame her apartment’s second-story window. The glass glows softly, diffused through curtains she thinks she pulled tight. But nothing is ever tight enough. Not for someone like her. Not for someone like me.

It’s almost midnight. She doesn’t know I’m here. She doesn’t know how close the threat is—the real one. The one with my face, if she ever saw it from this distance.

But she won’t. Not yet.

Not until I want her to.

Her silhouette shifts once, passing behind the curtain. The faintest change in shadow. Then stillness again.

She thinks she’s safe. I want her to believe that. For now.

She’s seen me before, I know she has, though she may not pay much attention to it.

Little moments placed with precision, where I’ve deliberately crossed her path.

I gave her outlines, not details. Presence without explanation.

Enough to stir her instincts but not enough to trace.

That’s how familiarity is built: in fragments.

Now, when I finally step out of the shadows, she won’t know whether to call it intrusion or inevitability.

I lean back against the leather seat and close my eyes. It takes effort to keep my breathing measured. Because the image of her all through today keeps resurfacing. Her face had shifted. Paler. Tight around the eyes. Her steps were too precise, like she was counting them.

Panic, even second-hand, is unmistakable.

Lydia said I was too close to this.

But Lydia didn’t see what I saw, what I've been seeing.

She didn’t see the way Mara folds herself smaller every day. Like she’s trying to disappear molecule by molecule.

I open my eyes and look again at the window.

She’s lying down now.

I don’t need to see her to know it.

My hand shifts on the gear, but I don’t start the car. Not yet. There are still twenty-three minutes until the next marked patrol passes this street. That’s enough time.

Enough to decide.

Enough to prepare.

The heat in the car has begun to stale, thick with breath and the faint trace of leather polish. I crack the window two inches. Just enough. Cold air slides in, sharp and bracing.

Across the street, her light finally clicks off.

I don’t move. Not yet. Watching her window go dark is not the same as her sleeping. She has rituals. I’ve mapped them. After the light goes out, she waits. Ten minutes, sometimes twelve. Then she checks the windows and door again. A soft shuffle of feet across wood, then silence.

That silence is where I listen hardest.

And tonight, it comes right on time.

I can’t hear things happening in there directly—there’s no audio surveillance inside her apartment.

But the old neighbor upstairs had a hallway camera still wired to a remote cloud account.

I secured access weeks ago, just in case.

Through those hallway mics, faint and often distorted, I catch enough.

I lean back in the seat and pull out my tablet. Not for entertainment. This screen doesn’t flash news or music. It holds maps. Schedules. Network taps. And the newest feed from the contractor I paid too much to get what I asked for.

Not illegal. Not exactly. But it skirts the edge, and I’m good at balancing there.

The image is paused. A man—Caleb—on a corner downtown, alone, just standing in the rain like he forgot where he was going. The timestamp is recent. Hours recent.

I scrub forward. He walks into a liquor store. Leaves with a paper bag. Doesn’t look up once.

Still here. Still circling.

I check another file—one Lydia didn’t authorize. Phone records. Location pings. Not Mara’s. Caleb’s.

She doesn’t know how close he’s come. How often. Twice within four blocks of her apartment. Once on the street she walks to work. That last one was a week ago.

I tap the screen off.

I know what I have to do. I’ve always known. But it’s no longer about strategy. Not only.

It’s about something that crawls beneath my skin. Something I thought I’d severed years ago.

Possession? Yes. Protection? Also true.

But this isn’t just about her anymore.

It’s about what I become if I don’t act.

I stay there a while longer, engine silent, tablet dark in my lap. Mara’s apartment stays quiet, still veiled in the hush of manufactured safety. I let the stillness stretch until the edges fray.

Then I finally drive off.

The city folds back around me—traffic thinned, storefronts shuttered, streetlights blinking red through empty intersections. The tires barely whisper on the road. I take the familiar turns home on instinct.

When I reach the underground garage beneath my building, I cut the engine and sit again for a beat, palms resting against the wheel. I tell myself it’s to decompress. I know it’s a lie.

Upstairs, the penthouse greets me in silence. Lights on a timer cast a soft perimeter glow. Everything is pristine. Exactly how I left it.

I don’t pour a drink. Don’t check the feeds again.

I toe off my shoes with practiced precision, each movement deliberate.

I loosen my cufflinks, place them in the dish by the entryway, then unbutton my shirt one measured notch at a time.

No lights on. I don't need them. I know this space like I know the lines in her face—intimately, obsessively.

The routine is grounding. Controlled. Stripping down becomes a silent ritual, not of comfort, but reset. The bedroom is cool, the sheets crisp.

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.

Planning.

Tomorrow starts early.

At precisely 5:02 a.m., I wake without an alarm. I never need one. My body is trained. Conditioned. The penthouse remains hushed as I move through my routine—shower, shave, steam-pressed suit. Dark navy today. Tighter weave. Commanding, but not loud.

In the kitchen, I prepare a protein shake. Measured to the gram. No deviations. No indulgences.

The home assistant—separate from the one at the office—arrives at 6:00 a.m. sharp, as she does every weekday. She’s tasked with maintaining the penthouse’s exacting order: overseeing cleanings, managing deliveries, and coordinating household needs.

Today she brings the day’s folders and briefing summaries as well, per standing instruction. She doesn’t knock anymore. Just enters with the code I programmed into her access badge—temporary, renewable weekly.

By 7:30, I’m at the office downtown. Eighteenth floor. Glass walls. Sleek black leather and minimalist chrome. A room designed to make everyone else feel slightly lesser.

The morning flows as it always does—smooth, efficient, unflappable. I settle two internal disputes between partners without breaking pace, then recalibrate a failing client portfolio in under twelve minutes.

But my mind drifts. Not away. Not entirely. It hovers at the edge of focus. Her.

Mara.

Her silence yesterday. The rigidity in her shoulders. The eyes that didn’t quite meet anyone’s.

I replay it.

I let it live in me.

By midday, I’ve cancelled a client lunch and pulled Lydia into my office.

"I need everything you’ve got on Caleb Rusk. All of it."

She doesn’t flinch. Just gives a slow nod. “I figured you’d ask. I’ve already started pulling records. You’re not going to like what you find.”

“I rarely do.”

She lingers at the door. “You’re not a savior, Elias.”

“No,” I say, “I’m not.”

She leaves.

And I get back to work.

It’s later in the afternoon when Lydia returns. She places the file silently onto my desk, her expression as unreadable as always. She doesn’t sit, doesn’t ask to.

“Caleb Rusk,” she begins, eyes steady on mine. “A history of domestic violence. Multiple incidents, multiple women. No convictions, though. Charges always dropped or settled quietly.”

I open the file, flip through documents—police reports, hospital records. Images I’d rather not see, yet study anyway. They further confirm the reports I've got so far.

“And Mara?” I ask, the name a tense whisper I almost regret saying aloud.

“She filed restraining orders in the past. All expired now. There’s no current legal protection in place.” Lydia pauses, choosing her next words carefully. “She’s vulnerable, Elias. Dangerously so.”

I meet Lydia’s gaze, recognizing the subtle challenge there. “Thank you, Lydia.”

She turns toward the door, then pauses. “Be careful. The line you're walking here isn’t thin—it’s invisible.”

The door clicks softly behind her.

I sit motionless for a long moment, the weight of what must come settling around me like a physical thing.

My mind slips—without permission—into places I've tried to bury.

The memories I rarely let surface begin crawling forward, vivid and unwanted.

A slammed door. A raised fist. The quiet humiliation afterward, bruises hidden beneath sleeves and collars.

My father’s face in Caleb’s files. The resemblance isn’t physical, but the echo of brutality is unmistakable.

My breath shudders. I regain control, slowly, deliberately. I straighten the papers in the file, edges aligned perfectly.

Then, carefully, I close the folder.

I head to the area around Mara’s apartment while she's safely at the clinic. Installation of discreet surveillance equipment is precise, quiet, and swift. Small, wireless cameras hidden in streetlamps, alleyways, and the apartment building’s exterior.

One placed carefully in the hallway outside her apartment door—disguised seamlessly within the corridor’s existing fixtures.

Nothing directly invasive inside her private space, but close enough to catch movement and better sound.

Just enough to ensure constant awareness of her surroundings. It’s necessary. Essential.

By evening, each vantage point is operational. I test the feeds from my mobile device, satisfaction settling in as I watch the clear, steady images stream flawlessly.

With surveillance secured, I return to the office, my mind sharper, more focused.

Now I can protect her fully, whether she realizes it or not.

The rest of the evening slips into its usual rhythm. Meetings, signatures, carefully orchestrated conversations. Every interaction is precise, deliberate—nothing wasted. Yet beneath the poised exterior, my thoughts keep returning to her, tangled and persistent.

By late evening, I review the new surveillance streams again.

Mara, now home, her silhouette occasionally passes the curtained windows, movements cautious and careful.

From the exterior cameras and the hallway feed, I glimpse enough— every hesitation at the window, the careful way she checks her door again.

Each subtle motion speaks of vigilance, confirming my decision.

Caleb isn't a threat she can manage alone. Not anymore.

I stare at the streams, piecing together her anxious routine through fragmented visuals and faint sounds captured just outside her door. The protectiveness I feel slides deeper, coiling with something darker, sharper.

The phone buzzes against the desk. Lydia. I swipe to connect, keeping my eyes on the screens.

“Caleb's on the move again. Just spotted near the edge of her neighborhood.” Her voice is calm, collected.

“Keep tracking him. Send me updates every thirty minutes.”

“Of course.” A brief pause. “How far are you prepared to go, Elias?”

“As far as I have to.”

The call ends, leaving the question hanging silently in the air.

I stare at the streams, the images of Mara’s silhouette continuing her anxious routine. The protectiveness I feel slides deeper, coiling with something darker, sharper.

I've walked this line before—control, obsession, protection. It's a line that defines me. But tonight, the boundary blurs further than ever.

Tonight, clarity comes from shadows.

Darkness deepens around me, shadows lengthening across the polished office surfaces. I barely notice when my assistant quietly exits, leaving me alone with the glow of surveillance feeds and a decision crystallizing with cold certainty.

Lydia sends another message, brief and precise: "Caleb stationary again. Parked three blocks from her place. Seems to be waiting."

Waiting. The word scrapes beneath my skin like metal against stone.

My heart beats a controlled rhythm, steady despite the tightening coil of anger and possessiveness that twists within me. I swipe away the message and rise from my chair, adjusting my cuffs as I move. Each step is deliberate, calculated.

I know the exact drawer without needing to look. It slides open silently under my hand, revealing a single object inside—a pistol, matte black, unregistered. Not yet used. Tonight could change that.

I take a deep breath, fingers hovering briefly over cold metal before picking it up.

This isn’t how I wanted it to unfold. But choices narrow when threats refuse to dissolve.

The elevator ride down feels slower tonight. My reflection is clear, resolute, composed in the mirrored walls. Outside, the air is crisp and sharp, the city illuminated in soft, distant lights. I step toward my car, the weight of the gun secure and familiar beneath my jacket.

I’m no hero. No savior. Lydia was right.

But I will be whatever it takes to keep Mara safe.

Even if tonight, it means crossing a line I can’t come back from.

The drive to Mara’s neighborhood is a silent blur.

Familiar streets pass like distant echoes—shops closed, sidewalks empty.

My thoughts sharpen, narrowing to a pinpoint focus.

There’s no hesitation now, no second-guessing.

Every moment feels like a thread tightening, pulling me inevitably toward action.

I park two streets away, hidden within shadows. I step out, the air colder now, a biting reminder of the boundaries I’m about to cross.

Walking silently through alleys, the pistol heavy but comforting against my chest, I catch sight of Caleb’s parked car ahead—dark, still, waiting. Inside, his form is slumped, unaware of my approach. The streetlight above flickers softly, illuminating the edges of the scene.

I step closer silently, narrowing the gap between myself and Caleb’s car. Suddenly, headlights slice through the darkness behind me, illuminating the street in stark relief. I halt, pulse quickening.

A police cruiser slowly rounds the corner, its reflective decals flashing briefly under the streetlamp’s glare. Caleb lifts his head sharply, his expression immediately tightening with alarm.

His eyes widen in panic, and without hesitation, he starts the engine. Tires screech as his car lurches forward, quickly disappearing into the night before the cruiser fully rounds the corner.

I step back into the shadows, feeling the adrenaline pulse heavily through my veins. My hand remains poised on the weapon concealed beneath my jacket, muscles tense, prepared yet restrained.

The police cruiser glides by at a measured pace, the spotlight sweeping methodically across the empty street, completely oblivious to my presence tucked into the shadows.