Page 9 of Fractured Loyalties (Tainted Souls #2)

Elias doesn’t speak again until we’ve left the town behind.

The car hums over the two-lane road, trees rising like sentinels on either side.

The fog clings to the windshield in thick curls, glowing faintly in the halo of the headlights.

I watch his hands on the steering wheel—calm, sure, unshakable.

His profile is cut from shadow and discipline.

“Where are we going?” I ask finally, voice raw.

“Somewhere no one can follow.”

The road winds tighter. A sign flashes past: PRIVATE ACCESS. Elias doesn’t slow. My phone buzzes in my coat. I check it—one missed call from Celeste, a text from Alec: Just checking in. You left quick this evening—everything all right?

I silence it.

We turn onto a gravel path flanked by tall hedges. Beyond them, the ocean murmurs. The car dips into a slight incline, tires crunching over crushed stone. Then the house appears.

It’s not a mansion. But it feels like one. Low, wide, all steel and wood and glass. Secluded. Elegant. Dangerous in how precisely it doesn’t try to impress. He kills the engine and looks over.

“We’re here.”

I follow him up the walkway, heart drumming too loud in my ears. He unlocks the front door and steps aside for me to enter first.

Inside, the air is warm. Clean. It smells faintly of cedar and something richer—amber, maybe, or smoke. The lighting is soft, gold-washed across polished floors. Every object is in its place. No clutter. No distraction. Just stillness crafted like art.

I hesitate at the threshold. He waits.

“This is yours too?”

He nods once.

“Do you live here or the other house?”

“No one lives here.” His voice is quieter now. “Not usually.”

I step inside. The door closes behind me.

The air shifts when the door seals behind us. It’s not fear that curls in my chest—it’s expectation. A breath held between decisions.

Elias moves past me, his gait silent on the hardwood, fluid and exact, like every gesture costs energy he refuses to waste. He says nothing. Doesn’t rush me. Just walks deeper into the house like he already knows I’ll follow.

And I do.

The entry opens into a long, sunken living room.

Modern furniture in matte gray leather. A fire flickers low in the hearth, already lit.

No TV. No art. Just floor-to-ceiling windows facing the ocean, framed by sheer drapes that ripple even with no breeze.

It’s…beautiful. But sterile. Like a place meant to be seen, not lived in.

I trail him into the kitchen. Slate counters. Stainless steel. A knife block gleaming under underlighting. The faucet doesn’t have a single water mark. Neither do the dishes.

“This place doesn’t look used,” I say quietly.

“It isn’t. Not really.”

“Then why bring me here?”

He opens a cabinet, pulls down a glass, fills it with water from a filtered tap. He sets it on the counter in front of me without answering. Only when I meet his gaze does he say, “Because it’s safe.”

Safe.

The word lands hard in my chest. He means well. I think. But there’s something about him that doesn’t feel built for comfort. He’s not soft. Not gentle. Not warm. And yet… he hasn't looked away from me once.

My hand shakes slightly as I pick up the glass. “You always this prepared?”

“I try to be.”

“You knew I’d need this.”

“Yes.”

His honesty is a strange kind of kindness. No performance. Just fact.

I take a sip, then set the glass down carefully. “What now?”

“Now, you breathe. You sleep. You stay here until I’m sure he’s gone.”

“And then?”

Elias watches me. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is low and firm. “Then you decide what you want. Not what he left you. Not what fear chooses for you.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then he adds, “And if that includes me…I won’t pretend I don’t want that.”

My heart stutters.

It’s not the confession itself. It’s the steadiness of it. No pressure. No demand. Just gravity. Like he’s naming something inevitable.

I look away. My skin feels too tight.

The air between us doesn’t cool, even after I walk past him. I feel Elias’s presence behind me like gravity, like breath on the back of my neck.

He says nothing as I explore the rest of the space. A hallway, muted gray. Another room—smaller, likely a guest suite. Then I find the room he must have meant for me. Cream bedding. Crisp, but not sterile. A window facing the sea, the sky already bruising violet with the first hint of dusk.

“I’ll give you space,” he says from the doorway.

I turn. “Elias.”

He waits.

My voice is quieter now. “Thank you. For what you did.”

His jaw tics, barely. “You don’t owe me gratitude.”

But I do.

He saved me—from something I still can’t name.

I close the door gently.

The silence inside the room is heavier than I expect. My hands tremble when I touch the edge of the bed. I sit. Then lie back, boots still on.

Somewhere down the hall, I hear a cabinet close. Water running.

He’s here. And I’m here. And everything between us now feels like a fuse waiting to burn out.

I think about the way he caught me, how fast I obeyed when he told me to get in the car.

I should be ashamed of how quickly I yielded, how little resistance I gave.

But it didn’t feel like surrender to a stranger.

It felt like recognition. Like a door I’d already opened somewhere in the back of my mind, long before last night.