Page 123 of Fractured Loyalties

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It’s already open.

Only a little.

Enough to mean something.

The air in the room is warmer than the rest of the house. I step in slowly, boots silent against the dark wood floor. Shedidn’t light anything, but the curtains are cracked just enough to spill that dusky gold across the edge of the bed.

She’s there.

Asleep.

Not sprawled. Not curled. Stretched long, one arm draped across where I usually sleep, like she knew I’d be standing here eventually, looking at that exact spot. Her other hand is tucked beneath her head, fingers slightly curled like she didn’t fully exhale before giving in.

And beside her, on the nightstand—

The knife.

Unwrapped. Laid flat. Gleaming.

A message.

I walk to the foot of the bed. Not to wake her.

To look.

She’s wearing one of my shirts. The hem has slipped up her hip. Her thigh is bare. There’s a mark at the edge of it—something old. A scrape or scar she never talks about. But now I can’t stop seeing it.

The room smells like her.

And there is a feel of something else in the air.

Not the warmth of rest. Not the scent of sleep.

Preparedness.

Like the air had been shaped by intent, not comfort. Like someone had measured each breath against a clock ticking just beneath the bedframe.

The drawer at the side table is slightly ajar. I don’t need to look. I know what’s in it.

The burner.

She’s not hiding it.

She wants me to see that it’s been used. That someone reached for her—and she didn’t reach back.

My fingers itch. Not with the need to touch her. With the knowledge of what I’ll do to whoever made her place a blade beside her own head before sleeping.

I sit at the edge of the bed.

She doesn’t stir.

But her breath shifts.

So I wait.

Not because I have to.

Because she chose this bed. Not hers. Mine.

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