Cole kept pace, silent now, though questions radiated from him like heat from a dying fire.
The tribute in Jack’s arms weighed nothing. Less than nothing, even soaking wet. His body heat might keep her warm, but it wouldn’t be enough to keep the tremors of shock at bay.
He knew those tremors all too well.
When they crossed beneath an arbor dripping with rain-drenched vines, Cole dared to speak again. “She went back.”
Jack’s molars locked but his stride didn’t falter. “I know.”
“She was at the footbridge just before the safe zone.” They ducked beneath a low branch. “Why would she go back into the maze?”
Jack’s arms tightened around her. He’d watched it happen on the surveillance feed, his breath catching as she stood at the threshold of safety, tears cutting through the dirt on her face, and then turned away.
She went back for a reason he couldn’t name. Didn’t understand.
But he’d seen Hadrian emerge from the fog like a phantom, and his blood had turned to ice water in his veins. His body moved before his mind caught up. Out of the chair. Through the suite. Down the stairs and into the darkness, sprinting through hedges as if driven by a compulsion so innate even logic couldn’t compete.
Security arrived because it was their job. They watched the feeds and responded immediately to any incidences that drew concern. Jack arrived because he couldn’t stay away.
“The footage will need to be reviewed,” Cole continued, matching Jack’s relentless pace. “Welles violated at least four protocols. And there’s also the matter of the weapon?—”
Fury burned through Jack’s veins. That slimy fuck knew the rules and he violated them anyway. “You leave Hadrian Welles to me.”
“Sir, if I may?—”
“You may not.”
They emerged from the gardens onto the manicured lawn that sloped toward the lodge. The building rose against the storm-dark sky, windows blazing gold, Gothic towers stabbing into the clouds like accusations.
Jack’s teeth chattered. Cold had seeped through his shirt, his waistcoat, settling into his muscles. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead and dripped from his jaw. His fingers were chilled to a ghostly white, numb to the bone. But he didn’t slow.
“Sir.” Cole tried once more, his voice careful. “Her feet are bleeding. Whatever happened out there?—”
“That will be all.”
The dismissal hung in the rain-thick air as Cole stopped walking. Jack continued toward the lodge, her weight shifting against his chest with each stride.
Avoiding the revelry spilling from the ballroom, he carried her through the service entrance, up the back staircase where shadows pooled thick, and servants knew not to linger. His wet leather soles squeaked against the marble, leaving dark prints in his wake.
By the time he reached his suite, violent shivers wracked his body. His soaked clothes clung to his abdomen, outlining every carved ridge. Water streamed from his sleeves, from his hair, pooling on the hardwood floor as he shouldered through the door.
The fire had burned low in his absence. Dying embers cast the room in amber shadows.
Jack crossed to the bed and lowered her onto the dark sheets, his arms trembling as he released her weight. She didn’t stir. Her head turned on the pillow, blonde hair fanning out in a tangled halo of pins and leaves and dried blood.
He stood over her, chest heaving, rain dripping from his jaw onto the dark bedding, waiting for her to move. She may need a doctor, but Jack wasn’t ready to hand her over. The most important thing was seeing to her comfort.
He moved to the fireplace and crouched before the hearth, his frozen fingers fumbling with the iron poker. He stoked the dying flames until sparks scattered. Heat bloomed. He stayed there a moment longer than necessary, letting the warmth thaw his hands enough to function.
When he rose, his shirt clung to his back like a sheet of ice. Cold burrowed into his bones, turning his breath to fog. His body screamed for those creature comforts he craved daily. A hot bath. Dry clothes. The burn of bourbon in his throat.
Not a single one a necessity. Right now, she was his greatest concern. He returned to the bed, but she hadn’t stirred.
“Sir?”
Jack turned from the bed.
Nick Carrow stood in the doorway, his thin frame silhouetted against the hallway light. Rain-spotted glasses perched on his nose. A leather satchel hung from his shoulder, heavy with whatever he’d deemed necessary to bring.
