A security guard at the desk looked up, probably said something, but I couldn't hear him over the rushing in my ears. I made for the elevator, my vision tunneling until all I could see was the call button, glowing like a beacon. My hands shook so violently that it took three attempts to press it.
The elevator arrived with a soft chime, doors sliding open, and I stumbled inside. My fingers fumbled with my pocket, searching for the key card, dropping it once before I could press it against the sensor. The button for the penthouse level finally lit up, and the doors began to close.
Through the narrowing gap, I saw Kade entering the lobby, his face a mask of concern, his mouth forming my name.
The doors shut, cutting him off, and the elevator began its smooth ascent.
I sagged against the wall, my legs finally giving out, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chest.
The numbers climbed. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.
When the elevator finally stopped and the doors opened to the penthouse hallway, I forced myself to stand. My legs trembled but held. I walked to my room, each step requiring conscious effort, and fumbled with the key card again before the lock finally clicked open.
I fell through the doorway, slammed the door behind me, and engaged the deadbolt they'd installed for me. The sound of it sliding into place should have been comforting, but it just reminded me I needed locks to feel safe, that even here, even in this expensive cage with these careful Alphas, I was still just prey trying to survive predators.
My back hit the door, and I slid down, my body folding in on itself, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight around my legs. Ipressed my face against my knees and finally, finally let myself fall completely apart.
The panic that had been building since I'd seen that newspaper photo crashed over me like a wave, drowning me in fear and memory and the terrible understanding that I would never be safe, not really, not when my face was public and my body remembered violence.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but sit there against the locked door and shake and wish desperately that I'd never left the streets, never accepted Kade's offer, never let myself hope that maybe, possibly, I could be anything more than what my old pack had made me.
Broken. Used up. Too damaged to feel safe again.
The morning light streamed through my window, bright and mocking, and I closed my eyes against it and tried to remember how to breathe.
Chapter Eighteen
Jasmine
The afternoon sun had shifted position by the time I uncurled enough to notice it, the light slanting through my window at a different angle than it had when I'd first locked myself in here. The blankets I'd pulled around myself were twisted and damp with sweat despite the room's comfortable temperature, evidence of the panic that had wrung me out like a dishrag.
I'd stopped crying maybe an hour ago. Maybe longer. Time had lost meaning somewhere between the shaking and the eventual stillness that came after my body had exhausted itself. Now I just lay there, wrapped in blankets like a cocoon, and tried to make sense of what had happened on that sidewalk.
The rational part of my brain, the part that had kept me alive on the streets through calculation and observation, kept trying to push through the fear. Kade had protected me. That's what he'd done. He'd stepped between me and a woman who wouldn't let go, who'd grabbed my wrist and wouldn't take no for an answer. He'd made her leave. That was protection, not violence.
But the other part of my brain, the part that remembered Bane's hands, the pack house, and the blood, that part couldn't separate the two. It saw Kade's stillness, heard his soft voice making threats, watched the way he'd positioned his body, and translated it all into danger. Violence waiting to happen.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, feeling the grit of dried tears. Kade wasn't Bane. I knew that. Somewhere underneath the fear, I knew it. Kade had never hit me, never raised his voice at me, done nothing but try to make me comfortable and safe. But knowing something and believing it were different things, and my body didn't care about logic when it was remembering pain.
A soft knock sounded at my door.
I froze, my hands dropping from my face, every muscle tensing again. The knock came again, gentle, barely loud enough to hear. Not demanding. Not aggressive. Just... there.
“Jasmine?” Lucian's voice, muffled through the wood. “I brought you some lunch. You haven't eaten since breakfast.”
My stomach chose that moment to remind me it existed, cramping with hunger. I looked toward the door, saw the deadbolt still engaged where I'd left it, and felt a wave of something that might have been shame. I'd locked myself in here like a child, had run from someone trying to help me.
But I'd needed to. In that moment, running had been the only option my body would accept.
I pushed myself up from the floor, my legs unsteady beneath me, and walked to the door. My hand hovered over the deadbolt for a moment, some part of me still cautious, still afraid. Then I slid it back with a soft click and pulled the door open.
Lucian stood in the hallway holding a wooden tray. He watched me with a face full of concern. Or worry. He didn't comment on my tear-stained cheeks or the way my hair had come loose from its tie, hanging in tangles around my shoulders.
“Hi,” he said softly. “I made you a sandwich. And coffee, though it might be getting cold by now.”
The smell of food reached me, making my stomach cramp again. I looked down at the tray and saw two sandwiches cutdiagonally, a mug of coffee with steam still rising from it, and an apple sliced into neat wedges.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice rough from crying. I stepped back, pulling the door wider. “You can... You can come in. If you want.”
