Gideon.
“It’s me,” he said, calm but urgent, his hands slightly raised in reassurance. His stance didn’t ask for her trust. It claimed it.
Relief slammed into adrenaline, stealing the strength from her legs. The only thing that felt real in that moment was him.
And he was assessing.
His eyes swept over her face, then the alley, then behind her, each shift in his posture tighter than the last.
No wasted movement. No unnecessary words.
He didn’t need details to know the threat had already touched her.
“What happened?” The question was clipped. And beneath the restraint—rage.
“I…” The syllable snagged in her throat, too breathless to carry anything more.
She swallowed, trying to calm the rush in her chest—facts, training, instinct all scrambling for dominance. “I heard footsteps. Deliberate. Too close. I tried to shake them—cut down an alley to gain some distance. To get a better angle.”
She watched the shift in him as she spoke; his stance widened, his hand settling at the small of her back, protective but careful.
“Did you see him?” he asked, voice clipped.
“Not clearly,” she said. “He paused at the alley’s mouth. Then walked away.”
A beat of silence passed, tension crackling between them like a storm waiting to break.
“Next time,” he said quietly, “you call me. The second you feel off. You don’t walk alone.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but one look at him, at the steel behind his eyes, the fear he wasn’t saying out loud, stopped her cold.
“You think I’d rather find you in an alley than answer my phone?” His voice was low and sharp, anger laced with worry so exposed it hurt.
“I didn’t want to sound paranoid,” she murmured, her voice small.
“Arden, paranoia keeps you alive,” he said, eyes hard on the shadows behind her.
His hand pressed more firmly at her back, a subtle pull drawing her closer. “And you’re not crazy. You were right to run.”
The words lodged deep, warming something she hadn’t realized had gone cold.
Her fingers knotted in the front of his coat, grounding herself in the only steady thing left.
And when he inhaled like he’d felt it too, it nearly undid her.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, too soft to sound convincing.
“No,” he said simply. “But you will be. Because I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
His hand shifted, sliding from her back to the dip of her waist—a gesture that steadied her, even as it sent a flicker of heat crawling up her spine. She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. The warmth of his touch was the only thing keeping the cold from getting in.
When they started walking again, her body drifted closer, his hand firm at her waist.
It wasn’t a choice.
It was instinct.
And for the first time in blocks, she could finally exhale.
