Chapter 3 – Lydia - The Leash #2
Then unlock the top one again just to re-check it.
I breathe in.
And immediately hate myself for how tight it sounds.
The dress hits the floor before I reach the kitchen.
I don’t bother with music. I don’t want noise.
Just something to fill the space between the seconds.
I pour gin into a heavy glass. No tonic. No garnish. Just the burn.
Then I walk to the window, the only one I rarely open.
The second floor gives me just enough of a view to see the crosswalk. The alley mouth. The rusted hood of a truck that hasn’t moved in two months.
I take a sip.
Wait.
The drink doesn’t help.
It never does. Not with this.
Because this isn’t panic.
It’s something colder. Slower.
It’s knowing, on a cellular level, that someone’s already behind the curtain.
Not here, not in the room, but near enough to breathe in sync with you if they wanted to.
I don’t move.
I just watch.
And then, right as I tell myself to go shower, to change, to do anything else… something moves.
Just a flicker. Across the street.
A darker shape, Too quick to define.
But not quick enough to unsee.
I freeze.
The curtain twitches in my hand. My heart doesn’t pound — it knots. Like it’s folding in on itself.
Because I felt that.
Same weight as before. Same space-invading stillness.
Not a threat, not yet. I lean forward but see nothing. Just the breeze tugging at the awning over the deli entrance. A plastic bag stuck under the wheel of a car.
But it’s not enough to convince me I imagined it.
Not with the way my skin just bristled like a nerve cut too close to the root.
I take another sip. Force myself to step back from the glass.
Lock the window.
Then double-check the latch.
I don’t want to admit who I thought it was.
Who I still think it could be.
Because I only saw him once. Properly, at least. Back in the logistics office, while he was asking too few questions, and too smoothly at that. Looking at me like I wasn’t new, just next.
But before that… there was the other night. At Dom’s club. When he was still nameless, just the man who didn’t blink twice; he only sat in the corner, and watched the room the way wolves watch fences.
I didn’t look at him twice.
Didn’t have to.
Some men wear silence like a cut.
And I remember that absence of sound now.
Tall frame. Controlled posture. Something about the way he held his glass like it wasn’t worth tasting.
And eyes that didn’t wander.
They landed.
On me.
Only briefly. But enough to make me feel named.
I move through the apartment on autopilot.
Shower. Fresh t-shirt. Bare feet. Second drink.
I try to convince myself it was nothing.
Just a trick of street movements. A shape made of nerves and tension and the thousand eyes a woman like me collects just by existing in this world.
But when I lie back on the couch, the fan humming above me, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
There’s a file on my laptop, an encrypted one.
I open it now.
There are only two images in it.
The first: Drazen.
The second: Silas Ward.
I don’t know how many names that man has had. Don’t know how real this one is.
But the photo isn’t recent.
His jaw’s less defined. Hair a little longer. The kind of face you’d ignore in a crowd until you realized it was the only one watching you.
I close the laptop.
Stand again.
Walk to the window.
Nothing.
But I don’t open the curtains again.
This time, I sit in the dimly lit room.
Just in case someone’s still watching.
And just in case they aren’t.
Because, either way, I need to look like I’m ready.
Even when I’m not.
I should be getting ready.
I should be dressing, stepping back into my role, the one that wears a smirk and heels and never lets her voice crack when Drazen talks about things he has no right to know.
Instead, I sit in the quiet and track shadows through the closed curtains like they might form into a name.
Silas.
I don’t know if it was him. I don’t even know if what I saw was real. Could’ve been a cab. Could’ve been a trick of the light. Could’ve been the hangover of fear Drazen carved into me an hour ago still bleeding at the edges.
But the way that shadow moved, just fast enough to dodge definition, felt like intent.
And Silas Ward?
He looks like a man who doesn’t blink unless he means it.
The file on him was short. Too short. I had to go digging myself. And even then, the trail ran cold right where it should’ve started to heat.
Which, in our world, means one of two things: Either he’s small enough to vanish, or big enough to erase himself. Neither option makes me feel much better.
I finally shift my weight, push up to stand. My legs feel too tight. My skin is too loose.
It hits me all at once, the kind of vertigo that doesn’t ask permission. The room tilts sideways, my hand misses the edge of the window frame, and then I’m not standing anymore.
I don’t remember going down.
Just the sound of my glass tipping, the thud of the couch against my shoulder, and an intense flare behind my eyes like a camera flash I didn’t ask for.
When I blink again, the light in the room is different.
Thinner.
Later.
The clock on the wall clicks past 2:00 PM.
I sit up too fast and feel it again, my body loose, my lungs sluggish, not with panic or fear, but with that sinking drop that comes when the wall I’ve been denying finally stops me cold.
I don’t trust hospitals.
But I trust Mara’s people: Celeste. Alec.
In a haze, I pick up my phone and send a text to Mara.
Then, I move to the bathroom, rinse my mouth out at the sink. Pull on jeans and a long cardigan that hides most of the bruising under my ribs — the kind you don’t see unless you know where to press. My bag feels heavier than usual, like my Glock knows I’m running low on muscle to carry it.
I head out.
The clinic sits on the north side of Miramont, wedged between a high-end pharmacy and an antique gallery that never has the same owner twice. From the outside, It looks almost too polished, all frosted glass and silver trim. A logo that means everything and nothing.
But I trust this place more than any hospital.
Because Celeste Varon built it.
And Alec Rennick guards it.
And Mara… Mara breathes inside its walls like she might never have been broken.
I step through the main doors and the room itself seems to shift. Cooler, cleaner, and laced with the scent of eucalyptus and something more biting underneath; antiseptic, maybe, or the subtle hum of focus.
The receptionist looks up. It’s not one I recognize. New, maybe. But she doesn’t flinch at my name.
“Lydia Carr,” I say simply.
She nods and taps a few keys. “Mara’s expecting you.”
Of course she is.
I pass the clean-lined couches, the glass-paneled conference room, the curated art that doesn’t look curated. All of it was chosen for calm. None of it was chosen by accident.
Celeste appears at the end of the corridor, clipboard in hand, reading something with the kind of still precision that makes her look like she’s carving the space around her.
Her eyes flick up as I approach. “Lydia.”
“Celeste.” I nod. “You look…”
“Awake?”
I smile. “I was going to say dangerous. But that works too.”
She gives a hint of a smirk, then gestures toward the hall. “She’s in her office.”
I don’t need directions. The route’s muscle memory by now.
Mara’s door is ajar. I knock once — a courtesy, not a question — and step inside.
She’s perched on the edge of her desk, legs crossed, phone in hand. No heels, no makeup; it’s just her.
She looks up and softens. “Lydia.”
“Mara.”
“Let me guess… Elias sent you?”
I shrug. “You think that’s the only reason why I can come here?”
She smiles. “Only because you’re wearing the face you reserve for mild irritation.”
I step in and close the door. “I fainted.”
Her smile drops. “What?”
“Earlier. Briefly. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” She rises, gestures to the chair. “Sit.”
I do.
She watches me carefully, then pulls her phone out again. “I’ll have Celeste take a look. Just a basic scan. Hydration, pressure, reflexes. Nothing invasive.”
I groan. “You’re the admin here, not the boss.”
“Wrong,” she says, dialing. “I’m the one who sees the paperwork when your body starts to betray you.”
I roll my eyes, but let her call anyway.
We talk for a few minutes, catching up in the way women like us can. Never straight on, always around the edges. She mentions Alec’s latest obsession with trauma pattern research, Celeste’s refusal to switch to decaf, the silent power plays happening on the clinic’s board.
I listen. Let the normalcy settle around me like a second skin.
Celeste enters not long after. No judgment—just that small, practiced nod that makes it hard to tell whether she’s comforting me or assessing me. She clips the pulse reader to my finger, then wraps the cuff around my arm. The monitor hums, then gives a soft beep.
“Your pressure’s low,” she says, frowning slightly. “Heart rate’s higher than I’d like. You’ve been pushing too hard. Looks like you've lost weight too.”
“Missed a few meals,” I say.
She gives a look that says she’s heard the excuse before. “I bet you miss more than meals. Sleep?”
I lift one shoulder. That’s enough of an answer.
She notes something on her tablet, pen tapping lightly against the screen. “I’ll leave one or two bottles at the front desk—something to help you stabilize, maybe rest. Nothing heavy.” Her tone softens, almost an afterthought. “Pick them up when you leave.”
“Sure.”
She gives me that small, knowing half-smile before turning for the door—efficient, measured, already moving on to the next body that needs her.
Mara touches my wrist as I rise. “Whatever it is… make sure it doesn’t take you first.”
I meet her eyes.
And nod.
I leave the clinic just as the light starts to dip below the skyline. Miramont’s mask starts to slip. The glass towers dim. The alleys close in. The sidewalks fill with faces looking for exits.
I don’t go home.
There’s still one place I need to be. One role I still have to play before this day lets me go.