"We shouldn't have left him there! What were you thinking?"
Declan's deep rumble answers, too low for me to make out the words until I reach the living room.
"... protocol. The procedure is to remove the asset from the situation. Ethan knows that. It's what he would expect."
"Don't call me an asset!" Jade's voice cracks with frustration. "I'm not a damn asset. I'm a person. A person who watched someone she cares about risk his life and got left behind like he didn't matter. He's your friend, your family. How could you just drive away?"
I pause, my hand on the door. Something in her vehemence catches me off guard, squeezes something inmy chest that I've kept carefully locked away. She is worried about me.
"I already spoke to Ethan on the phone," Declan's voice remains steady, though I detect the strain beneath it. "The police have the guy in custody. Ethan is fine. He'll be here any minute."
I push the door open and step into the living room, taking in the scene.
Jade stands in the center of the room, her copper hair falling in waves around her shoulders. Her back is to me, her posture rigid with tension. Declan faces her, his massive frame somehow diminished by the emotion radiating from her much smaller figure.
"I'm offended by your lack of faith in my capabilities," I say, keeping my tone deliberately light.
They both turn. Declan's expression shifts immediately to relief, but Jade...
Jade's face transforms. The anger drains away, replaced by something that steals my breath. Relief, yes, but layered with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
"Ethan," she whispers.
Then she's moving, crossing the space between us in quick strides. I brace myself for whatever comes next. A tirade about leaving without clearance, questions about the attacker,demanding assessment of the security breach.
What I don't expect is for her to throw herself against me, her arms wrapping around my neck, her body colliding with mine with enough force to rock me back slightly. And I certainly don't expect her mouth to find mine in a desperate, hungry kiss.
For a heartbeat, I'm too stunned to respond. This is Jade Sinclair, my client, a woman I've sworn to protect, a woman who keeps everyone at careful distance, pressed against me, kissing me like I'm air and she's drowning.
Then instinct takes over. My arms circle her waist, pulling her closer, my mouth responding to hers with an urgency that's been building since the first day I saw her. The kiss is frantic, messy, all teeth and heat and need.
Her hands grip my shoulders, then my face, holding me to her as if afraid I'll disappear if she loosens her hold.
I'm vaguely aware of Declan discreetly withdrawing, the soft click of the door as he leaves us alone. But most of my consciousness is consumed by the sensation of Jade's body against mine, the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin.
When she finally breaks the kiss, she doesn't step away. Instead, her hands move over my chest, my arms, my face, checking, confirming, making sure I'm whole.
"You're really okay?" she asks, her voice uncharacteristically small.
I capture her restless hands in mine, stilling theirfrantic movement. "I'm fine. Not a scratch."
Her green eyes search mine, looking for truth, for reassurance. The vulnerability I see there triggers every protective instinct I possess. I want to shelter her, keep her safe, and never let her feel fear again.
"Let's sit down," I suggest gently, guiding her to the plush sofa.
She follows, but keeps hold of one of my hands, as if unwilling to break physical contact. We sit facing each other, her knee touching mine.
"The police have him in custody," I begin, keeping my tone even. "He had a concealed knife, but hotel security intervened before he could use it. We got lucky. Very lucky."
Her breath hitches, but she doesn't interrupt. Her eyes are locked on mine, searching.
"They searched his apartment," I continue. "Found a full-blown shrine. Photos, magazine cuttings, old press kits, personal items we still can't figure out how he got them. The kind of obsession that builds slowly, then snaps."
I keep my voice professional, detached, though the memory of those walls covered with her image still makes my skin crawl. "According to his initial statement, he became fixated on you about a year ago. Things escalated when he saw the photographs of us at the gallery opening. He felt... betrayed."
Her face pales. "Betrayed?"
"In his mind, he had a relationship with you," I explain carefully. "The tabloid photos shattered that delusion. He wanted to make you suffer for it."
