Page 8 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

The click of the clinic door behind me is sharper than it should be.

I feel it slide down my spine like a warning, even though I tell myself it’s just the shift in pressure from the hallway to the front desk.

My boots make soft sounds against the polished linoleum, the quiet rhythm grounding me more than anything else has today.

I’m back.

The morning light through the front windows casts faint lines across the waiting area, slicing through the fog that hasn’t yet lifted from the coast. Everything looks the same.

The same stack of brochures in their color-coded trays.

The same faint lemon antiseptic smell. The same low hum of the old HVAC vent by the receptionist’s desk.

But something in me feels irrevocably tilted.

Maybe it’s the fact that Elias drove me here himself.

Or that I didn’t stop him. Maybe it’s the way he lingered at the edge of the lot afterward—still a stranger, but one who carries silence like a weapon.

I don’t know what he’s capable of yet. I only know that he’s near.

And that unsettles me more than it should.

And, near isn’t new anyway. I’ve caught him before, though I didn’t name it then.

At the café window, a line at the post office, the sharp angle of his shoulders reflected in glass I wasn’t supposed to be looking at.

Always there and gone, never too close, never intrusive.

Like a bookmark slipped into the margins of my days.

I told myself it was just a coincidence, but part of me knew better. That’s why when he stepped out of the alley, I didn’t feel the kind of fear I should have. My body had already filed him under something known. Not safe, not exactly—but not strange either.

My fingers hesitate over the computer mouse, then move mechanically. Log in. Open calendar. Sort voicemails. But my focus frays at the edges. I keep looking over my shoulder. My body knows it’s being observed, even if my eyes can’t see it.

Celeste appears just after eight-thirty, her navy cardigan tugged neatly over her frame, lips pursed in that way that means she’s got ten things to say and no time to say them. “Morning, Mara.”

“Morning.” I try for composed.

Her eyes narrow. “You look flushed.”

“I walked fast.”

She studies me a second longer than necessary, but lets it go. “We’re overbooked today. Patterson rescheduled, but Dr. Liem added a consult last minute. You’ll need to prep three new packets.”

I nod. Routine. I can do routine.

As she disappears down the hall, I reach for the intake folders, then carry them out to the reception desk to make sure the morning schedule is updated. The receptionist glances up, and I give a quiet reminder about Patterson’s rescheduled slot. Small, ordinary tasks. Anchors I can cling to.

I turn to head back into my office—then I freeze.

Through the slat of the blinds, a black car sits across the street. Parked just far enough not to raise an alarm. Not the same one from last week, but similar. Tinted windows. Engine quiet.

I stare a beat too long.

“Mara?”

I flinch. Alec stands behind the counter, holding two coffees. I didn’t even notice when he got there.

He follows my gaze. “Something out there?”

“No,” I lie quickly. “Just fog.”

He sets one of the cups down in front of me, fingers brushing mine briefly. His touch is warm. Familiar. Safe in a different way than Elias’s ever could be. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

The lie is smoother now.

He nods but doesn’t move. Just watches me with that quiet surgeon’s patience, like he’s waiting for the symptoms beneath my words to show themselves.

I take a sip of the coffee. It’s not my usual tea, but I need the heat. I need the distraction.

Across the street, the car is gone.

Just like that.

I blink twice. Glance around. Nobody else seems to have noticed.

I try to breathe, slow and deep, the way Dr. Chang—my old therapist back in Michigan—taught me. Breathe in to the count of four, hold for two, out for six. But my lungs still feel coiled as I move back to my office.

At lunch, I escape to the staff kitchen and pretend to check the breakroom fridge, even though I already know there’s nothing in there but celery and expired yogurt. I just need to be alone. My fingers find the edge of the counter and grip tight.

Elias said he’d stay close. I didn’t think that meant surveillance-grade close. Not that I even know if that’s what this is. I haven’t seen him, haven’t caught him watching—but I feel him. It’s a phantom sensation, like heat after a hand’s been lifted from skin.

The way he moves, speaks, the way he looks at me like he’s already memorized my pulse—none of it feels accidental. He knew my name. He knew about Caleb. He walked into my life like he belonged in it, like he had a key he never asked for.

Maybe that’s why I trusted him so easily. Maybe I’d been practicing for it without knowing—letting those fragments of him slip past my guard until they stitched together into something almost familiar.

And God help me, he’s beautiful in a way that makes my stomach knot. Sharp, elegant features. Dark eyes that don’t blink enough. A mouth that never quite softens. He looks like every mistake I’ve never had the courage to make—until now. I should be questioning everything.

But instead, I’m wondering what his hands would feel like if he didn’t stop at tucking hair behind my ear. I’m wondering how long until I stop pretending I haven’t already let him in.

Who is he, really? What kind of man says, with terrifying calm, that he wants me—but will wait until I’m ready? It should feel threatening. But it doesn’t. Not in the way Caleb did. Not in the way predators do.

Elias doesn’t feel dangerous. He looks like something out of a dream I shouldn’t admit to having. Too polished. Too still. Too controlled. His eyes carry weight I don’t understand yet. Maybe I don’t want to.

And yet, when he said he wanted me—just hours after we met—I didn’t flinch. I leaned in.

God, what is wrong with me?

I mutter it under my breath, not realizing I’ve said it aloud until the door swings open and Marsha from records pauses just inside the room. She gives me a look. Not cruel. Just cautious. Like she’s recalculating.

“Long day?” she asks.

I nod quickly, brushing my hair back and reaching for a bottle of water I don’t want.

She hums. “Tell me about it.” Then she ducks into the fridge and leaves without pressing further.

I wait until the door swings shut again before I let myself breathe.

Who the hell is Elias Voss? And why do I already feel like I’ve opened something I won’t be able to close?

I’m not scared. That’s not what this is.

It’s something else. Something sharper. Hungrier.

I lean forward and press my forehead to the cabinet door. The cold laminate soothes the heat prickling beneath my skin.

I should be terrified.

Instead, my pulse skips in anticipation.

The sun hangs low when I finally clock out, though it’s only a little past five. The fog hasn’t lifted all day. It crawls along the sidewalk like something with weight, brushing against my ankles as I step outside. Cold wind claws at my sleeves. I button my coat and start walking.

As I step onto the sidewalk, my mind drifts to Elias. I wonder if he’s still out there. Watching. Protecting. Or maybe just letting me test the edges of my own fear.

I glance at the row of parked cars across the street.

None of them are his. Not the sleek black one from earlier.

Not even anything close. Still, I feel it—presence.

Not visible, but near. He could be half a block behind me, matching my pace.

He could be across the street behind the tinted window of a café.

Or maybe I’m just going insane.

Each footstep crunches against scattered gravel as I take the longer route home—past the bookstore, around the florist’s alley. I like this path. It smells like old paper and sweet soil. I’ve walked it enough times that the turns feel instinctive. Familiar.

But today, something’s off.

There’s a pulse behind me. A rhythm. At first, it could be anything—an echo, my own steps bouncing off concrete.

But the sound persists. Syncs with mine, then shifts.

I glance behind me. The street is empty.

I turn down the alley. My shortcut. My mistake.

Halfway through, I hear it again. Closer.

My hand curls around the pepper spray in my coat pocket. My heart tries to push up through my throat. I turn fast—nothing there. No shadow. No silhouette. Just cold brick and rusted fire escapes and the echo of my own panic.

Then I see him.

Tall. Hooded. Maybe six strides back. Too far to make out his face. Too close to be coincidence.

I spin around and walk faster. The alley opens up into the side street by the bakery. If I make it there, I can disappear into a crowd.

My boot catches on uneven pavement. I stumble, catch myself, push forward.

He speeds up.

My lungs forget their rhythm. My hand tightens on the spray, but I don’t turn. I run.

I burst out onto the sidewalk—and slam straight into a wall of muscle.

A man.

Elias.

He grabs my arms just as I start to scream. “It’s me,” he says, calm and quiet, but not soft.

I stare up at him, breath tearing through me, hands shaking.

He looks behind me once. His whole posture changes. “Get in the car.”

“What—?”

“Now.”

The tone in his voice leaves no room for argument.

He steers me toward a black sedan I hadn’t noticed—parked half a block down, engine already running.

My legs move before my brain does.

He opens the door, pushes me gently inside, then rounds to the driver’s side. He slides in, and he locks the doors.

When he speaks again, his voice is steel. “Was he following you?”

I nod. “I think so. I—I don’t know. I panicked.”

“I know.”

The car peels away from the curb.

In the rearview, there’s no one. Just fog.