Wood splintered. Hinges screamed. The sound was deafening in the narrow hallway, and I flinched so hard I nearly fell. Through the dust and debris, figures poured through—dark suits, controlled movements, the kind that spoke of training and practice and violence held on a very short leash.
Jack’s bodyguards. Two of them. Three. They moved like water, like shadows, flowing around the gang members before anyone could react.
And then Jack was there.
He stepped over the wreckage, his eyes locked on the scarred man with an intensity that made the air go cold.
The sirens were screaming now. Closer. Red and blue lights starting to flash through the boarded windows. Chaos erupted around us—shouts, scuffling, the sounds of bodies hitting walls as the bodyguards subdued the gang members.
I was shoved forward brutally as the men scrambled for escape with the sound of the siren.
I felt solid arms around me. Familiar hands were on my face before I could speak. Cupping my cheeks, tilting my head, his eyes scanning me for damage with an urgency that made my throat close up.
The sirens were still wailing outside. Footsteps thundered in the hallway—police, finally, filling the building with shouts and chaos.
“Are you hurt?” His voice cracked on the words. “Pauline. Look at me. Are you hurt?”
My voice had abandoned me somewhere between the panic and the relief. I just shook my head, trembling.
His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t known was falling.
“We’re leaving,” he said. Not to me—to his men, who had the three attackers subdued on the floor, groaning and bleeding. “Let the cops handle it,”
He guided me out of the building with his arm around my shoulders.
My legs felt weak. My whole body felt weak, like someone had removed my bones and replaced them with water.
His car was parked outside—sleek and black.
He opened the passenger door and helped me inside, his movements gentle.
He got in the driver’s side. Sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, not moving.
Then he turned to me, and the fury broke through.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
I flinched. I couldn’t help it. His voice was loud in the enclosed space, sharp with something that sounded like fear wearing the mask of anger.
“Do you have any idea what could have happened?” He was shaking. “If I hadn’t followed you—if I hadn’t guessed you were about to do something stupid, those men would have—” He stopped.
His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping. “Is your career worth your life, Pauline? Is a story worth dying for?”
My eyes burned. My throat closed up. I opened my mouth to respond—to defend myself, to explain, to tell him he had no right to lecture me about anything—but what came out instead was a sound I didn’t recognize. A sob. Small and broken and completely beyond my control.
Jack’s face changed. The anger drained out of him like water from a broken glass.
He reached for me, his hand hovering in the space between us like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch me.
“Pauline.” His voice was soft now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I was scared. I was so scared. I saw them grab you and I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought I was going to lose you. Again.”
The word again hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I had locked away years ago.
“Just take me home,” I whispered. “Please.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face.
“Take me home!” I said louder this time, my tone harsh.
