Page 57 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already decided everything.” She pauses before adding, “Like you’ve won.”

Traffic parts for me as if it knows better.

My mind replays how the scene at the clinic must’ve played out—the spray of panic in her eyes, Caleb’s face twisted in rage, I wasn’t there, but I can picture it anyway, too clearly.

The thought of her face in that moment gnaws at me.

She shouldn’t have been in that position to begin with.

And still, she insists on clinging to the illusion of choice, like it’s enough to keep her alive.

“You think Celeste could have stopped him?” I ask. “Or Alec? They deal in paperwork and polite words. Men like Caleb don’t even hear those. I could have stopped him.”

Finally, she turns toward me. Her voice isn’t loud, but it cuts. “I did stop him. Me. Not you. Not your gun. Not your threats. I stood there and used what I had.”

For a moment, her conviction presses into me. And it infuriates me—because she’s right. The image of Caleb doubled over from the pepper spray is burned in. Mara standing, not running, not breaking.

But conviction doesn’t kill men like him.

“You hurt him,” I admit. “But you didn’t finish him. That’s the difference. You’ll sting him, and he’ll come back sharper. I end him, and he doesn’t come back at all.”

She flinches, just slightly, at the bluntness. Her gaze darts back to the glass, her reflection fractured by the streaks of sunlight.

We drive through the arterial stretch of the city. Glass towers glare down, mirrored surfaces hiding more than they show. The SUV is a cocoon of tension—her silence a wall, my thoughts a storm.

Then she says, barely audible: “Maybe I don’t want him ended. Maybe I just want him gone.”

“Gone is an illusion,” I snap. “I gave him that choice once, remember? I gave him the chance to walk away, but he didn’t take it.”

I take a deep breath and mutter under my breath, but loud enough for her to hear, “Gone is what weak people settle for. Right now, I hate myself for that moment of weakness. Dead is the only kind of gone that matters at this point.”

Her throat works as she swallows. I see her fingers twist the ring harder, skin reddening beneath the metal.

“Mara,” I murmur, and this time my hand does land on her thigh, heavy, firm. She stiffens but doesn’t push it away. “You don’t have to want it. I’ll want it for you. I’ll carry it. And when it’s done, you won’t have to think about him ever again.”

Her eyes close. Not in surrender. Not yet. More like she’s trying to block out the inevitability I’ve just laid in front of her.

The streets thin until the coast road opens. Wind from the ocean cuts across the asphalt, salt burning the air. I take the turnoff onto a narrower lane, half-hidden behind a crumbling guardrail. Most people wouldn’t notice it. That’s why I chose it.

The second safehouse waits at the end, set back from the road, surrounded by trees that muffle the world outside. A three-story structure of dark stone and glass, faceless, stripped of charm—like it was built to disappear. And it was.

I keep my hand on her thigh until the building comes into view. Until she knows that nothing she says will change the course we’re on.

When I pull up to the curb, she exhales like she’s been holding it in since the clinic.

The building looks like nothing—weathered brick, boarded windows, an iron door scabbed with rust.

Her voice comes edged with disbelief. “This is it?”

I kill the engine. “This is where no one finds you unless I want them to.”

Her fingers go still on the ring. The line between fear and safety blurs again, and I see her caught in it. Exactly where I need her.

I step out, round the hood, and open her door. She doesn’t move at first, but when I extend my hand, she takes it. Not because she trusts me. Because she doesn’t see any other road left.

And that, in the end, is trust enough.

We move, hand in hand.

Inside, the house greets us with cold air and clean lines. White walls. Polished wood. Wide windows that look out on nothing but black trees. There’s no softness here. No comfort. That’s the point.

“Second floor,” I tell her, gesturing to the stairs. “Take the room at the end of the hall. It’s yours.”

Her gaze cuts to me, sharp enough to strike. “Mine? Or the one you’ve decided is mine?”

The heat in her voice digs under my skin. Good. Anger means she’s alive. “Does it matter? The locks hold either way.”

Her lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t move.

I step closer, the air between us tightening. “You wanted to go back to your apartment. Pretend none of this touched you. And today, Caleb was at your clinic. Tomorrow, he would have been at your door. That’s the truth, Mara. You don’t have to like it, but you’ll live because of it.”

She stares at me for a long moment, then finally turns, walking up the stairs without another word. Her braid swings against her back, neat and controlled. Everything she does screams restraint, but I know restraint doesn’t keep the nightmares out.

Lydia arrives a few minutes after, dropping her jacket over a chair, eyes flicking between me and the stairs. “You look worse than she does,” she says.

“Watch the perimeter,” I answer.

Her smirk cuts sideways. “Translation: Stay out of your way. Fine.”

I ignore her, my eyes already dragging back to the staircase, to the closed door at the end of the hall. To Mara.

Because walls don’t keep me from wanting what’s behind them.

I don’t give her long. Ten minutes, maybe less. Just enough time to settle in, pace the perimeter of the room, pretend she still has a choice. Pretend she can claim the space as hers without me.

The door isn’t locked. I push it open and step inside.

She’s standing near the window, arms crossed tight across her chest, the blinds tilted half-closed. Her face catches the spill of sunlight through the glass, pale and sharper than usual, her eyes a storm of fury and exhaustion.

“You don’t knock now?” she says.

“It’s my house.”

Her laugh is short, bitter. “Exactly. Yours. Not mine.”

I move farther into the room, shutting the door behind me. “You’ll sleep here tonight. You’ll be alive tomorrow morning. That’s all that matters.”

Her shoulders rise, stiff. “You keep saying that like it’s a favor. Like forcing me into your cages is protection instead of control.”

I let the words settle, feel the sharp edges of them. Then I step closer, until I can feel the tension coming off her in waves. “Control keeps you breathing. You think Caleb respects boundaries? You think he’ll stop because you say no?”

Her arms drop, fists tight at her sides now. “And you think I can’t stop him myself?”

“You couldn’t before.”

That hits her like a slap. Her chin jerks up, eyes flashing with something caught between rage and shame. “I survived him. I’m still here.”

“Because you disappeared,” I bite back. “Because you made yourself small and invisible. That isn’t survival. That’s hiding.”

She steps toward me then, closing the gap, her voice rising, cutting through the sterile air of the room. “And what do you call this? Dragging me here, deciding where I sleep, who I see, how I live? You call it protection. I call it another cage. And I am done living in cages.”

Her words crash against me harder than I expect.

For a second, the image of the woman I had at Dom’s club flickers in my mind—the way she knelt, restrained, waiting.

Perfect obedience. And yet it’s useless now, because standing in front of me, fists clenched and jaw set, Mara is the one I can’t shake.

She’s defiance and fire, not compliance.

And it’s her resistance that won’t leave me alone.

“Cages are what keep predators out, Mara. And I am the only one standing between you and the man who still wants to break you.”

Her gaze locks on mine. Defiant. Trembling. She doesn’t step back, doesn’t fold. And something inside me cracks at the sight of it—because I want to strip that defiance down to its raw core, see if it burns or if it begs.

She whispers then, her voice so sharp it cuts. “Maybe the real predator is already in the room.”

The air between us shatters.

Her words hang in the room, daring me to prove her right. Maybe I already have.

I move before she can blink. My hand catches her wrist, slamming it against the dresser.

The wood rattles under the force. She gasps, not out of fear, but because she wasn’t expecting me to close the distance this fast. My body cages hers in, the press of my chest against her, the edge of the furniture digging into her back.

“You think I’m the danger?” I murmur against her ear, my voice threaded with heat I can’t contain. “You’re right. But you’re still here. You didn’t run.”

Her chin jerks up, eyes flashing fire. “Because you don’t let me.”

I tighten my grip on her wrist, her body arched between me and the dresser. She fights me for half a heartbeat, her muscles taut, testing the strength of my hold. The struggle only feeds the hunger in me.

“You want to walk away? Do it,” I growl, pressing harder into her wrists. “But you won’t. Because you crave this.”

Her lips part, breath unsteady. “I don’t—”

I cut her off with my mouth on hers, crushing, devouring. Her gasp spills into me, and when her teeth graze mine, it’s not resistance—it’s the spark of something feral.

Her body bows against mine, legs shifting restlessly, but she doesn’t tell me to stop. Her wrists twist under my grip, not to escape, but to feel the drag of my strength holding her there.

I drag my mouth down her jaw, the taste of her skin laced with salt and fury. My voice rumbles against her throat. “Tell me again you don’t want this.”

She shudders, caught between the words and the heat flooding her. “I hate you.”

“Good,” I hiss, teeth grazing her pulse. “Hate me harder.”

Her hips jerk forward, the sharp edge of the dresser biting into her lower back as she arches against me. I feel the tremor racing through her, the contradiction tearing her apart. Her body betrays her mouth, pressing closer even as her words come out in fragments.

“Elias….”

I drag one hand from her wrists down her side, palm curving hard around her hip, anchoring her to me. My grip is bruising, possessive, everything I’ve been holding back since she walked out of my apartment.

“You belong in cages,” I breathe against her skin, each word a brand. “But only mine.”

Her eyes blaze, wild and wet, as if she hates me for the truth of it—and hates herself more for needing it.

Her nails dig into my hand where I still hold her wrist tight. The sting only drives me further.

This isn’t gentleness. This isn’t safety. It’s another collision in a war we’ve already waged across walls, sheets, and shadows. But this time it’s different—because it’s her defiance I’m taking, not her fear.

And when her head tips backward, lips parting on a sound that’s half curse, half need, I know she’s not surrendering for the first time. She’s surrendering again, and hating me for how much she craves it.