Page 64 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

I study the image. The Civic comes back to mind, always just far enough not to touch me. Always present. A shadow.

“And if I do spot them?” I ask.

“You don’t confront.” Lydia’s mouth twists.

“You don’t pull some movie heroine shit and shout in the middle of the street.

You get unpredictable. Cross mid-block. Step into a store you’ve never been in.

Switch sides three times in one block. People who are hunting you don’t like patterns. Break yours.”

“And if they still follow?”

She leans in, gaze like steel. “Then you hit first.”

The words sink deep, sharp as the baton in my hand. My pulse pounds so loud I swear she hears it.

I grip the weapon tighter. “What if I freeze anyway?”

“Then you die.” She says it without blinking. “So don’t.”

Her bluntness is cruel and freeing at the same time. There’s no soft lie to cling to, no promise that hesitation is safe. Only truth.

My throat burns, but I make myself nod.

Lydia finally picks up her jacket now, slides it over one shoulder. “That’s enough for now. Elias will have a fit if you’ve got bruises when he walks in.”

Something bitter stirs in me. “And if he doesn’t walk in?”

Her eyes flick to mine, unreadable. “Then you’ll be glad I didn’t go easy on you.”

Her words hang in the air long after she says them. If he doesn’t walk in. I hate that it feels possible. I hate that I believe her.

The baton is still in my grip, warm from my palm, heavier than it has any right to be. I lower it carefully to the table beside Lydia’s bag, the metal clinking against wood. My fingers don’t uncurl right away—they ache, stiff with the effort of pretending I’m stronger than I am.

“You’re shaking less,” she notes.

“I’m still shaking.”

“Good. Means you’re alive.”

I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “That’s the bar?”

“It’s the only bar that matters.”

Her jacket settles across her shoulders. She tugs the zipper up halfway, leaving her throat exposed like she has nothing to fear. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she’s built so much armor into herself that she doesn’t notice anymore when she walks into a fight.

I envy that. I also know I don’t want to become it.

The tablet screen dims beside her, the frozen frame of that car still stamped across it. The Civic that Elias hunted today. He doesn’t know I’ve seen the same shadow from another angle, tracked by Lydia’s hands while I stood in this room learning how to survive thirty seconds.

“Why tell me the truth?” I ask. “About the net? About them using me?”

Her lips curve, not a smile. More like the edge of a blade catching light. “Because lies make people slow. And I don’t train slow.”

The words sting. Because she’s right. Because somewhere inside me, I’ve been waiting for comfort, for someone to soften the edges. Elias doesn’t soften. Lydia doesn’t either. Maybe that’s what keeps them alive. Maybe that’s what will keep me alive, too.

The safehouse feels bigger now, as if every wall holds secrets I don’t know how to read yet. I stand straighter, my body sore but wired, and let my eyes take in the space the way Lydia told me: corners, exits, reflections. Not like home. Like terrain.

I can feel her watching me, measuring if the lesson stuck.

“Again,” she says, surprising me.

“What?”

She points to the wall, sharp. “Corner. Show me you remember.”

I hesitate only a breath, then move. The edge presses my spine again. The baton is gone, but I imagine it. Hip, pivot, elbow—this time smoother, faster, breaking the corner before she can blink.

When I come out the other side, Lydia nods once. Approval.

“Better.”

I’m flushed, chest tight, but something in me steadies. She was right. Speed isn’t grace. Speed is survival.

I meet her gaze. “What if he doesn’t like me learning this?”

Her brows lift, and for the first time, a real smile ghosts over her face. “Then he’ll have to keep up.”

The sound of the safehouse hums louder all at once—the HVAC, the faint shift of pipes, the tick of the clock near the kitchen. The world is still turning. Elias isn’t back yet. But I am not standing still.

I grip the edge of the counter to keep my hands busy. Lydia folds her arms, watching me like she’s decided something.

“You’ll be fine,” she says. “But only if you remember one thing.”

“What?”

“You’re not his shadow, Mara. You’re your own weapon. Start thinking like it.”

The words lodge in me, sharp as any blade. I don’t know if I believe them yet. But I want to.

The door unlocks with a clean metallic slide. Not frantic. Not loud. Controlled. Of course it is.

My fingers grip the counter tighter. Lydia doesn’t move from the couch, but her eyes flick to the door like she already knows what she’ll see.

Elias steps inside.

He doesn’t look winded, though there’s a faint red scrape on the back of his hand, just above the knuckle. His jacket is missing. His shirt clings damp at the shoulders. His eyes are sharper than when he left, pupils still edged with whatever he just did.

For one beat, I don’t breathe. The room holds him like it has been waiting.

Lydia stands, casual but alert. “You’re late.”

His gaze slices to her, then to me. He ignores the comment entirely. “Mara.”

My name in his mouth is gravity. It pulls and pins. My chest tightens because I want to step toward him, but the towel ghost memory on my skin reminds me: cage. Net. Bait.

“You’re bleeding,” I say instead, nodding at his hand.

His eyes follow mine, dismiss it with a small flex of fingers. “Not mine.”

The chill in my stomach deepens. “Then whose?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

That earns me a long stare, like he’s measuring how much I can take before I splinter. I hold it. My legs want to fold, but I stay upright. Finally, he answers. “Two men. One of them thought waiting near your clinic was wise.”

The tablet on the table suddenly feels radioactive. Lydia’s earlier words echo: placement, testing response time, bait.

I whisper, “And they’re dead now.”

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

The flatness of it steals the air from my throat. No apology. No hesitation. Just a ledger balanced.

Lydia breaks the silence. “Civic?”

Elias nods once.

Her jaw ticks. “I told her about the net.”

His eyes cut to her, sharp enough to draw blood. “That wasn’t yours to tell.”

“She deserved truth before it used her ribs for scaffolding.” Lydia crosses her arms. “You can thank me later.”

Tension wires the air, but I step into it before it snaps. “She’s right.” My voice is steadier than I expected. “I’m not furniture you move around. If they’re using me to pull you out, I deserve to know.”

Elias turns back to me. Every line of him is restraint, but it thrums with danger. “And what would you have done with that knowledge? Run? Hide? You’d be dead already if I hadn’t gotten there first.”

The words burn. “So I just stay blind while you handle everything?”

“You stay alive while I handle everything.”

The counter edge digs into my palm. Part of me wants to scream. Part of me wants to collapse into him and let the weight of his violence shield me. Both parts tear at each other until I feel raw, skinless.

I force myself to ask, “Would you ever let them use me? If it meant drawing bigger prey out?”

The question lands heavy. Lydia watches him carefully, silent now.

Elias’s jaw works once. His eyes don’t leave mine. “No.”

But I hear the ghost of truth Lydia gave me earlier: He’s not letting them. He’s pretending he didn’t notice they already are.

I can’t tell if his answer is protection or performance.

So I test him. “You said you’d protect me. Not your job. Not your pride. Me.”

His eyes narrow. “And I am.”

“But at what cost?”

The scrape on his knuckle flexes again as his hand tightens. He steps closer. Too close. My pulse spikes, but I don’t back away. I meet him head-on, even if my knees scream otherwise.

His voice lowers, rich and final. “At any cost.”

The words slam into me, heavier than any corner Lydia trapped me in. They should feel like safety. Instead, they feel like shackles.

And the worst part? My body doesn’t reject them. It shudders with relief.

The space between us shrinks until I feel the heat of him. His hand lifts, but instead of grabbing, he drags his knuckles down my jaw, tracing the outline as though he owns every line. The scrape I noticed earlier leaves a faint smear against my skin, and I don’t know if it’s blood or shadow.

“You think I don’t see the war in your eyes,” he murmurs. “But I do. You’re furious with me. You’re afraid of me. And still, you’re here.”

“I don’t have a choice.” The words scrape out rough.

His mouth curves like he’s heard something different. “You always have a choice. You just keep choosing me.”

The worst part is how true it feels.

Lydia settles on the couch, the leather creaking faintly, but she doesn’t interrupt. She just watches, like we’re another feed on one of her cameras.

Elias’s thumb presses beneath my chin, tilting my head back until my throat is bared. My pulse kicks against his touch. “You don’t need to know the cost,” he says softly. “Only that you will never pay it. I will.”

My stomach knots. Because that’s the hook. The trap. The promise that sounds like salvation but tastes like chains.

I manage, “And what if I don’t want your kind of protection?”

His grip tightens. His eyes burn with a conviction I can’t match. “You want it. You need it. That’s why you tremble when I leave and shake when I return. Because part of you already knows you belong under my watch.”

Heat floods my face, not just from anger but from the raw truth of it. He’s right. He’s so infuriatingly right.

I glance past him, toward Lydia, desperate for an anchor. But her expression is unreadable. She doesn’t step in. She doesn’t break the tension. She lets me drown in it.

Elias leans in, voice brushing against my mouth. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

The baton Lydia gave me is still on the counter, its weight pulling at the corner of my vision. I could reach for it. I could push him away. Instead, my body betrays me, my lips parting without permission.

“I—” My throat locks. The words scrape. “I need you.”

The sound I make after is half-sob, half-growl. Because he’s bent me into the shape he wanted, and I hate how much I wanted it too.

His smile is a razor. He kisses me then, not soft, not claiming, but sealing. His mouth takes, teeth catching my lower lip hard enough to sting. When he pulls back, his voice is iron. “Good girl.”

The words ripple through me, fire and ice.

Lydia exhales sharply, the sound breaking the spell. “I’ll sweep the feeds again,” she mutters, grabbing her tablet. “You two can finish your war without me watching.”

She moves toward the couch, bag in hand, not leaving us entirely but giving us space.

Elias doesn’t let go of me. His hand slides from my chin to the back of my neck, his fingers threading through damp strands of hair. His eyes hold mine like a tether. “You won’t run,” he says. Not a threat. A certainty.

My voice shakes. “And if I tried?”

“You wouldn’t get far.”

And yet something in me doesn’t shrink. The training with Lydia burns in my muscles, the baton still close. For the first time, I know I could strike. I could break the spell for thirty seconds.

But I don’t.

I stay.

Because the truth is worse than the cage: I don’t want out. Not yet. Maybe not ever.