Page 63 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

I pull the towel tighter until it chafes my ribs, then let it drop to the floor.

My skin prickles in the cool air. He left marks—his hands, his belt, his mouth.

They bloom like proof across my shoulders and thighs.

I press my palm against one and feel the ache push back.

Not shame. Not exactly pride either. Just a reminder of where I stand, what I’ve let in.

The closet is curated to his taste, not mine.

Hangers with dark clothes, simple cuts, fabrics that cling more than I’m used to.

No soft cottons or faded sweaters. No color.

Even the jeans are precise, black or charcoal, like everything should match his mood.

I pick a pair that fits snug against my hips, then a plain tank, one that won’t tangle if I have to run.

Sneakers from the bottom rack—he must have placed them there for me.

Not brand new, but clean, broken in enough to feel like I can sprint if it comes to that.

I gather my hair into a braid, tugging it tight so it can’t be yanked free. The act feels like armor. Small, but deliberate.

When I step back into the hall, Lydia looks up from the tablet. Her gaze flicks down, takes in the jeans, the shoes, the braid. She nods once, a silent checkmark. Her approval feels nothing like Elias’s. He devours. She measures.

“Better,” she says. “Now pick it up again.”

She means the baton. I reach for it where it rests on the table. Cold weight in my hand, heavier now that I know it belongs to me for the moment. Lydia rises from the couch, taller than I remembered, lean and balanced like someone who doesn’t waste movement.

She sets her stance in front of me and raises a hand. “Hit.”

I blink. “What?”

“Hit. My arm. Not full force. I’d prefer to keep the bone intact. But enough to hear the sound it makes. You need to know how it feels.”

“I don’t—”

“Hit,” she repeats.

The command slices through hesitation the way Elias’s voice does, but where his digs deep into my chest, hers is brisk, stripped of seduction. I swing. The baton makes a crack against her forearm, jarring up through my wrist. Not pain, but impact. Not violence, but survival.

“Again,” she says.

I do. Louder this time.

Her eyes stay steady on mine, not flinching, not backing away.

“Good. You’ll freeze the first time it’s a person.

Everyone does. But if you already know the sound, it’s easier to push through.

Don’t aim for bones unless you have to. Nerves are faster.

Here. Here.” She taps her own thigh, her ribs.

“Eyes if you’re desperate. The rest buys you seconds. Seconds are gold.”

I nod. My grip sweats against the handle.

“You’re not a fighter,” Lydia says, matter-of-fact. “But you don’t need to be. You just need to be hard to keep.”

The words land differently than Elias’s constant cage talk. Not owned. Not trapped. Just harder to hold onto. Something that can slip out of hands.

The tablet chimes softly in her hand. She studies the screen, expression unreadable, then angles it toward me. The Civic glows in grainy grayscale, parked at the curb outside the clinic from yesterday’s feed.

“That car,” Lydia says. “It wasn’t random.”

I freeze. “You mean Caleb?”

“Not Caleb. Bigger net than him.” She zooms closer. “That car was a placement. They wanted him to see it. They wanted him to chase it.”

My chest hollows. “And he did.”

She doesn’t answer, which tells me everything.

I grip the baton tighter. The weight grounds me, but it doesn’t quiet the storm inside. “So they’re not just circling me anymore. They’re using me to pull him.”

Lydia’s eyes flick up to mine. “Exactly.”

The words settle like stones in my stomach.

I think of Elias out there now, following their trail, walking into whatever waits for him.

I picture the way his hand closed around my chin before he left, the promise in his voice when he said he’d protect me.

I should feel safer because of it. Instead, I feel like I’m the rope they’re using to drag him under.

Lydia shuts the tablet with a snap. “Which means you can’t afford to sit here shaking. If he’s their target, they’ll circle you until he bites again. You don’t want to be easy meat.”

I look down at the baton in my grip, then back at her. The towel may be gone, but the marks on my skin are still there. The cage Elias put me in is still here. But for the first time, I wonder if the real danger isn’t outside the door—it’s the fact that he walked into the trap because of me.

The baton suddenly feels heavier. It shifts the balance in my wrist, like it’s testing me instead of the other way around. Lydia studies my grip for another long beat before stepping in closer, her boots quiet on the rug.

“Show me stance,” she says.

I don’t move right away. “I don’t—”

“Now.”

Her tone is sharp enough to cut hesitation. I square my shoulders, plant my feet the way she showed me earlier. My knees feel shaky, but I lock them into place.

Lydia gives a small grunt, not approval exactly, more like acknowledgment. “Better. Imagine it. A man grabs you from the front.” She lunges, sudden, hand flashing toward my wrist. Instinct flares, messy and clumsy. I twist toward her thumb just like she said.

The baton wobbles, nearly slips from my grip. My chest hitches, heat crawling up my throat.

Lydia leans back, one brow raised. “You hesitate, you lose it. You lose it, you better find teeth or elbows.”

I clench the baton harder. “You don’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“I’m not here to inspire,” she says, flat. “I’m here to keep you alive long enough to matter.”

The room feels too large for what’s happening inside it. The sleek furniture, the glass walls, the polished wood—it doesn’t match the training drill I’ve just been dragged into. But maybe that’s the point. The danger doesn’t care about settings. It doesn’t wait until you’re ready.

She grabs again. This time, I twist faster, yanking my arm free before she can clamp down. My heart kicks hard. I snap the baton forward, the strike stopping inches from her hip.

“Closer,” Lydia says, eyes glinting. “If you’re going to hit, you commit. None of this halfway shit. Halfway gets you dragged into a van.”

I swallow. My hands sweat against the grip, but I nod.

Her gaze sharpens, measuring me again. “Elias ever teach you this?”

“No.” My voice is thinner than I want it to be. “He teaches in other ways.”

Lydia tilts her head, something like amusement shadowing her mouth. “Yeah. I’ve seen his other ways.”

The implication sparks heat and shame in equal measure. I shove it down. “You said thirty seconds. That’s all?”

“That’s all you need. You make it thirty seconds without folding; someone else is watching. A camera. A bystander. Him.” She jerks her chin toward the door, toward wherever Elias has gone. “Your job isn’t to finish the fight. Your job is to not disappear before backup arrives.”

I think of the Civic. Of the grainy frames of men holding phones low to catch reflections. Of Elias walking straight into their net. I wonder who’s backing him up right now, or if he doesn’t believe in the word at all.

My hand trembles around the baton. Lydia notices, but she doesn’t call it weakness. Instead, she taps her boot against mine again, setting my feet wider.

“Again,” she says.

This time, when she grabs, I swing. The baton smacks against her arm with a crack that echoes through the sterile living room. The sound startles me more than the hit. I almost drop it. Lydia just smirks.

The crack of the baton against her arm still buzzes in my wrist. My ears hum with it, too loud in the quiet. Lydia shakes her arm once, not in pain, just a test of muscle, then steps back in, crowding me again.

“Better,” she says. “But men don’t always come at you clean. Most will go for hair. They like control first.”

My stomach knots before she even moves.

Her hand fists in my damp hair and jerks my head back. I gasp, knees buckling. The baton nearly slips again. My scalp screams where she pulls.

“Step in,” she orders.

I don’t think. I stumble forward instead of back, crashing my shoulder into hers. The momentum makes her grip loosen. I swing the baton up and catch her ribs with the edge. Not hard. Enough.

She lets go. My chest heaves, heat crawling up my face.

“Good,” she says again. “Closer is better than retreat. They expect fear to pull you away. Step in, you ruin their balance.”

“I thought you said—” My throat catches. “You said survival, not winning.”

“Sometimes survival means making them regret choosing you in the first place.” She studies me, head tipped slightly. “You’ve got speed. That’s more useful than strength.”

I wipe a strand of wet hair from my cheek. My hands shake harder now, but I refuse to hide them.

Lydia circles me once, like she’s looking for weaknesses. “Corners,” she says suddenly. “Worst place to be. Most of the time, you’ll end up there without meaning to.”

She pushes me, guiding me back until the edge of the wall presses into my spine.

“What now?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“You do.” Her voice sharpens. “Think.”

I force myself to move. The baton lifts. My elbow drives forward as if someone is closing in. I pivot, hip scraping the wall, and push myself sideways out of the corner. It’s clumsy, graceless, but I’m free of it.

“Not terrible.” Lydia folds her arms. “But speed matters more than clean execution. Panic makes you freeze. Freeze gets you dragged.”

I nod, trying to settle the thundering inside me.

She moves back and reaches for the tablet, swipes through more frames of the cameras. “Street work is trickier. You think someone’s following you, you check reflections. Glass. Chrome bumpers. Phone screens. Not by turning your head like a frightened rabbit.”

Her finger jabs at the screen. A woman passing a shop window, glancing sideways without moving her head. “That’s how you do it. They think you’re admiring yourself, not clocking their shadow.”