Technically true. Legally, he wasn't doing anything wrong by standing on a public street taking photographs. But legal and right weren't always the same thing, and the fear radiating from Jasmine behind me was making it hard to care about technicalities.
“You're right,” I said, keeping my voice conversational, almost friendly. “Absolutely right. You can stand here all day.” I paused, letting a beat of silence stretch. “Of course, I can standhere all day too. Getting between you and any shots you might want to take. Funny how that works.”
His smirk faltered slightly. He was calculating now, weighing whether the effort was worth it, whether he could get around me, or if I'd just keep blocking him.
I let him see exactly how immovable I could be. Let my shoulders square, my stance widen just slightly. I'd been trained in protective work, had spent years learning how to use my body as a shield, how to project the kind of presence that made people reconsider their choices. This was second nature.
“Look,” I said, modulating my voice to something more reasonable, “I get it. You've got a job to do. But so do I, and right now my job is making sure she's comfortable. You want an interview, a photo shoot, whatever, then call the main office. Set something up properly. But ambushing someone who's clearly distressed? That's not going to get you what you want.”
Behind me, Jasmine made a small sound, barely audible, but I heard it. A whimper, maybe, or just a sharp intake of breath. The sound went straight through me, and I had to focus hard on not letting my anger show on my face.
The reporter lifted his camera one more time, got off three quick shots of me, of the building, and of the general scene, then finally lowered it. “Tell Killion I'll be calling,” he said, already backing away. “And tell him keeping secrets just makes the story more interesting.”
I watched him retreat down the sidewalk and didn't move until he'd turned the corner and disappeared from view. Even then, I waited another few seconds, making sure he would not circle back, would not try again from a different angle.
The winter air was sharp in my lungs, cold enough to sting. Fumes from passing cars created a haze at street level, mixing with the smell of wet concrete from patches of melting snow.
I turned slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, and found Jasmine exactly where I'd left her. Still frozen. Still in that defensive posture that made her look like she was bracing for a blow.
Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated with fear, and her breathing was too fast, too shallow. The apple pie sweetness of her scent was tainted with something sharp and acrid—fear pheromones that made my Alpha instincts roar with the need to comfort, to protect, to eliminate whatever had caused this reaction.
But I forced myself to stay still, not to crowd her, but to let her process what had just happened at her own pace.
“Jasmine,” I said softly, keeping my voice low and gentle. “You're okay. He's gone.”
She blinked, the motion slow, as if she were coming back from somewhere far away. Her gaze focused on me, recognition dawning, and then her eyes filled with tears that didn't quite fall.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaking, barely audible over the street noise. “I’m sorry; I didn't know what to do.”
“I know,” I said, feeling for her as she looked down at the pavement. “You don't have to apologize.” She looked up and nodded.
I took a careful step toward her, watching for any sign that my proximity was unwelcome. When she didn't pull back, didn't flinch, I took it as permission to move closer.
“Let's get you inside,” I said, reaching out slowly, touching her elbow. Not gripping, not controlling, just offering guidance and support. “It's too cold out here anyway.”
She nodded, still not speaking, and let me guide her toward the glass doors. She was trembling, fine shivers running through her body.
The lobby's warmth hit us as we stepped inside, the contrast making my face sting slightly from the temperature change. I steered Jasmine away from the main entrance, toward a quieter corner where a set of leather chairs sat near a decorative fountain. The sound of water trickling over stones created a buffer against the lobby's ambient noise.
“Sit,” I said, gesturing to one of the chairs. “Just for a minute. Catch your breath.”
She sank into the chair as if her legs had given out, her body folding in on itself. Her hands were shaking as she pulled them into her lap, trying to hide the tremors.
I stayed standing, positioned myself so I was between her and the glass doors, blocking the view of the street. If that paparazzo came back, if anyone else tried to approach, they'd have to go through me first.
My heart was still pounding, adrenaline coursing through my muscles, making them tense and ready. The protective instinct that had surged when I'd seen that camera flash in Jasmine's face hadn't subsided. If anything, it had intensified, settling into something deeper and more permanent, as I realized she was mine to protect now.
I looked down at her, saw her breathing slowing, and saw some of the panic drain from her expression. Her green eyes met mine, and something passed between us. Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.
“You didn't have to do that,” she breathed, her voice still shaky but stronger than the whisper from outside.
“Yeah, I did,” I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being. “That's what I'm here for.”
She studied my face, her gaze tracking the scar that ran up the right side, the evidence of violence I'd survived. I let her look, didn't turn away, or try to hide it. If she were going to trust me, she needed to see all of me, scars included.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, surprising me with the question. “Your scar.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “It did when it was fresh. Now it's just part of me.”
