27. Shattered Glass
27
SHATTERED GLASS
~BASTIAN~
I went after her before anyone could.
Not because it was my duty to retrieve the bike, or because I'm certain Marcus would have ordered me to do so anyway, but because the look on Nightshade's face is one I've seen before. That thousand-yard stare. The pallor beneath her natural olive complexion. The slight tremor in her hands that most wouldn't notice but that screamed danger to someone who knew the signs.
The roar of my motorcycle drowns out Marcus's voice as he continues his carefully measured confrontation with Elliott Prescott. I don't need to hear the specifics. I already know my role in this carefully coordinated dance—to ensure Nightshade's safety while the others handle the immediate threat.
The campus blurs around me, buildings and students melding into smears of color as I push the machine to its limits. Wind whips against my helmet, the physical sensation grounding me in the present even as my mind races backward through time.
I remember her as a child.
Seven years old, maybe eight. Small for her age but already carrying herself with the unconscious grace that would later make her a formidable dancer. Platinum blonde hair in two neat braids, school uniform pristine despite the day's activities.
It was supposed to be a routine security detail—escort the Calavera heir to her ballet recital, maintain perimeter awareness, ensure no threats penetrated the venue's defenses. Standard procedure for the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the criminal underworld.
Then the gunshots. The screams. The crowd erupting into chaos as rival family enforcers chose a children's dance recital as the setting for their power play.
I remember searching for her with increasing desperation as panicked parents and children fled in all directions. Victor Calavera would have my head—literally, not figuratively—if anything happened to his precious daughter.
Then I saw her—standing completely still in a sea of motion, that red coat making her a beacon amidst the chaos. So tiny compared to the adults rushing past her, but it wasn't her size or her stillness that made me race toward her with a desperation I'd never felt before.
It was her eyes.
Wide. Unblinking. Pupils so dilated they consumed the blue of her irises. The exact expression she wore today, facing the man who destroyed her seven years ago.
I'd recognized the signs immediately back then, just as I do now. The beginning of a catastrophic panic response. The body preparing to shut down when the mind can no longer process the overwhelming stimuli bombarding it.
I scan the academic buildings ahead, searching for Nightshade's motorcycle among the rows of vehicles in the student parking area. My heightened senses pick up the lingering trace of her scent—vanilla and honey threaded with something darker, now tinged with the acrid note of fear. I follow it like a bloodhound, weaving between parked cars and hurrying students with single-minded focus.
There. The custom bike with its flame detailing sits isolated at the far end of the lot, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the muted tones of standard student vehicles. And perched atop it, still as a statue, is Jessica.
She hasn't moved since arriving. Hasn't removed her helmet. Hasn't acknowledged the curious glances from passing students. She simply sits, hands gripping the handlebars with white-knuckled intensity, body rigid with tension that radiates from her in almost visible waves.
I bring my motorcycle to a controlled stop beside hers, dismounting with efficient movement that belies my size. Years of training allow me to appear less threatening despite my massive frame—shoulders slightly lowered, hands visible, movements telegraphed rather than abrupt.
She doesn't react to my arrival. Doesn't turn her head or acknowledge my presence in any way. The visor of her helmet is raised, allowing me to see her eyes—wide and unfocused, seeing something far beyond the parking lot, beyond the present moment entirely.
I position myself directly in front of her bike, placing myself in her line of sight without crowding her. Still no response. The dissociation is progressing rapidly, her mind retreating from a reality too painful to process.
"Nightshade," I keep my voice low, steady. Not a question, not a demand, just a gentle reminder of her presence, of her name, of her identity beyond the trauma currently reclaiming her.
Nothing.
I reach forward slowly, telegraphing my movements, and rest my hands lightly over hers where they grip the handlebars. The touch is meant to be grounding, a physical anchor to the present, but even this minimal contact causes her to flinch violently, as if shocked by electricity.
She blinks rapidly, gaze finally focusing on me with confusion evident in those too-wide eyes. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again as she struggles to reconcile my presence with whatever nightmare landscape she's been traversing in her mind.
"Bastian?" Her voice is barely audible, the single word fragmented and uncertain, as if she's not entirely convinced I'm real.
I nod, maintaining the light contact with her hands. "Let's get off the bike, Nightshade."
She stares at me uncomprehendingly for a moment, then glances down at the motorcycle as if surprised to find herself sitting on it. With mechanical movements, she swings her leg over the seat, standing on legs that visibly tremble beneath her.
The academy uniform she borrowed—the one she'd never normally wear—suddenly seems too large for her frame, her body appearing smaller and more vulnerable within its confines. I resist the urge to sweep her into my arms immediately, knowing that in her current state, such an action might trigger rather than comfort.
"We need to go inside," I say instead, gesturing toward the nearest building entrance with a slight tilt of my head. Students are beginning to notice us—the massive scarred Alpha and the notorious Omega of Dead Knot standing together in the parking lot. Whispers have already begun, curious glances lingering longer than is comfortable.
Jessica nods, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. She takes a step forward, then another, each one seemingly requiring conscious thought to execute. I remain close without touching, ready to intervene if her legs give out but allowing her the dignity of moving under her own power.
We make it to the building entrance without incident, though her breathing has become increasingly shallow, her complexion paler with each step. The moment we cross the threshold into the relative privacy of the empty corridor, I scan for the nearest refuge—somewhere private where the impending breakdown can occur without audience or interruption.
The men's restroom is closest, its door marked with a sign indicating cleaning in progress. Perfect. I guide Jessica toward it with the lightest touch at her elbow, grateful when she doesn't resist. The vacant room contains four stalls and a row of sinks, the harsh fluorescent lighting making her already pallid complexion appear almost ghostly.
I lock the main door behind us with practiced efficiency, securing our temporary sanctuary from prying eyes. The click of the lock seems to trigger something in Jessica—a sudden awareness of confinement, of vulnerability—and her breathing accelerates dangerously, coming in short, sharp gasps that can't possibly be delivering adequate oxygen to her system.
"Can't—" she gasps, hands rising to claw at her throat as if physically removing an obstruction. "Can't breathe?—"
I recognize the spiral beginning, the feedback loop of panic generating physical symptoms that in turn create more panic. I move forward, gently but firmly grasping her face between my palms, tilting her head up to meet my gaze directly.
"Yes, you can," I say, my voice calm but firm, a counterpoint to the chaos clearly raging inside her. "You're having a panic attack. It will pass. Focus on my voice."
Her pupils are so dilated that only a thin ring of blue remains visible around the edges. Her pulse races beneath my fingertips where they rest against her jaw, her skin cold and clammy with fear sweat.
"I can't—" She struggles against my hold, not with genuine intent to escape but with the restless, desperate energy of someone whose fight-or-flight response has activated with nowhere to go. "I can't do this. I can't be in the same school as him. In the same?—"
Her voice breaks, words coming faster now, tumbling over each other in a rush of terror and rage. "He'll kill me or I'll kill him and that's how it would end but then the Senator would get away and I can't—I can't?—"
Her hand moves to her thigh, to the concealed holster I know holds her compact pistol. The movement is automatic, unthinking—the instinctive reach for a weapon when threatened. I intercept gently but firmly, capturing her wrist before she can draw the gun.
"Jessica." I use her first name deliberately, the sound foreign but necessary to break through the escalating panic. "Look at me. Right here."
She fights my hold with surprising strength given her current state, her free hand now scrabbling at her ankle where I suspect another weapon is concealed. The desperation in her movements is heartbreaking—this isn't calculated violence but the blind thrashing of someone drowning in their own mind, reaching for anything that might provide even temporary relief.
When gentle restraint proves insufficient, I make the decision to use my size more assertively. In one fluid movement, I pull her against my chest, arms encircling her completely, pinning her own arms to her sides in a hold that's restrictive but not painful. It's a calculated risk—physical constraint could either ground her or send her spiraling further into panic.
For a moment, she fights with the feral intensity of a cornered animal, twisting and bucking against my hold. I maintain the pressure, steady and unyielding but never crushing, using my body as both restraint and shelter.
"You're safe," I murmur against her hair, repeating the words like a mantra. "You're safe. He can't touch you. Not anymore. Not ever again."
Something breaks inside her—I feel it happen, the exact moment when resistance gives way to release. A sob tears from her throat, raw and wounded, the sound echoing against the tiled walls of the restroom. Then another, and another, until she's weeping with the abandon of someone who's held back tears for years.
Her legs give out completely, and I shift my hold to support her weight fully, lifting her into my arms with the same care I would show handling something infinitely precious and fragile. Because she is—beneath the armor, beneath the weapons and masks and calculated violence, Jessica Vesper Calavera is both stronger and more fragile than anyone I've ever known.
I move to the nearest stall, pushing the door open with my shoulder. The space is clean but utilitarian, the standard institutional white tile and metal fixtures offering little comfort. I lower the toilet lid with one hand, keeping Jessica secure against my chest with the other, then settle onto the improvised seat with her cradled in my lap.
She curls into me instinctively, face pressed against my shoulder as sobs wrack her slender frame. I hold her securely, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other traces slow, soothing circles between her shoulder blades. Just as I did by the lake, I make no attempt to shush her, offer no platitudes or reassurances that might feel hollow against the magnitude of her pain.
Some wounds require full expression before healing can begin. Some grief demands voice, demands witness, before it can begin to recede.
So I hold her, steady and present, as the storm of emotion breaks over and through her. Her tears soak into my shirt, her fingers clutching the fabric with desperate intensity, as if anchoring herself to me might prevent her from being swept away completely.
I remember doing this before—not with the woman, but with the child. After the shooting at the ballet recital, when I'd finally reached her frozen form in the red coat, I'd lifted her into my arms and carried her to safety, murmuring reassurances as the delayed terror finally broke through her initial shock.
She'd clung to me then, too, small face pressed against my neck as she shook with silent sobs. I'd held her until the trembling stopped, until her breathing steadied, until Victor Calavera himself arrived to reclaim his daughter with uncharacteristic gentleness.
The memory sharpens the protectiveness I already feel toward the woman in my arms. Not just because of our shared history, not just because of the pack bonds forming between us all, but because there is something uniquely precious about Jessica that transcends designation or utility or strategy.
Her sobs gradually quiet, the violent shaking of her body easing into gentler tremors. Her breathing remains uneven but no longer approaches hyperventilation. The worst of the panic attack is passing, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
"I'm sorry," she whispers against my neck, the words barely audible. "I don't—this isn't?—"
"Don't apologize," I interrupt gently, continuing the soothing motion of my hand against her back. "Not for this. Never for this."
She shifts slightly in my arms, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze. Her face is flushed and tear-stained, eyes swollen, nose reddened—all the undignified physical manifestations of genuine grief. Yet there's a clarity returning to her expression, a gradual resurfacing of the sharp intelligence that defines her.
"I thought I was ready," she admits, voice scratchy from crying. "I've imagined facing him so many times. Rehearsed exactly what I'd say, what I'd do. But when I actually saw him?—"
"The body remembers," I finish for her when she trails off. "Even when the mind believes itself prepared. The body carries trauma in ways we can't always predict or control."
She nods, a flicker of surprise crossing her features at my understanding. Her hand rises to wipe roughly at her face, embarrassment beginning to replace vulnerability as her usual defenses reassert themselves.
"I've never—" She stops, swallows hard. "Not since that night. Not like this."
I understand what she's trying to say. That this level of breakdown is unprecedented. That she's maintained control, maintained vigilance, maintained the armor protecting her wounded core for seven years without faltering.
"The strongest dams eventually crack under enough pressure," I say simply. "It doesn't mean they were poorly built. It means they've been holding back too much for too long."
She doesn't respond verbally, but I feel some of the tension leave her body at my words. Her head drops back to my shoulder, the gesture carrying a trust that touches something deep inside me—a place I thought had calcified years ago after my own traumas, my own losses.
We sit in silence for several minutes, her breathing gradually syncing with mine—deep, steady inhales and exhales that help regulate her nervous system. I notice the exact moment when her body goes completely limp, consciousness surrendering to the exhaustion that follows emotional catharsis of this magnitude.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, the distinct pattern identifying the caller before I even check the screen. Careful not to disturb Jessica, I extract it with minimal movement, answering with a voice pitched low enough not to wake her.
"Bastian," I answer simply.
"Where is she?" Rook's voice carries tension even through the digital connection. "Is she okay? Emilia says she never made it to class."
"We're in the men's restroom near the east entrance of the Humanities building," I respond, keeping my voice steady despite the evident concern in his. "She had a panic attack. She's unconscious now—exhaustion, not medical emergency."
A stream of cursing flows through the speaker, colorful enough to make me wince slightly despite my own extensive vocabulary of profanity.
"I'm a minute away," Rook says once he's exhausted his impressive array of expletives. "Don't move."
"Wasn't planning to," I reply dryly, but he's already disconnected.
True to his word, less than sixty seconds pass before the bathroom door rattles violently, the locked handle jiggling with increasing force. I smile faintly at the characteristic impatience—Rook has never been one for subtle entrances.
"It's locked," I call out, just loud enough to be heard through the door without disturbing Jessica.
There's a pause, then the distinct sound of metal tools being inserted into the lock. Three seconds later—impressive even by Knox's standards—the door swings open to reveal Rook, his expression thunderous beneath the half-mask he wears.
He secures the door behind him with practiced efficiency, hanging an "Out of Order" sign that appears to have been borrowed (or stolen) from a janitor's cart. His movements are controlled but carry an underlying tension that vibrates through his powerful frame like a plucked wire.
His gaze finds us immediately, assessing Jessica's condition with expert precision. Something in his expression shifts when he sees her cradled against my chest—not jealousy, as might be expected, but a complicated mixture of relief, concern, and gratitude.
Without a word, he crosses the small space, kneeling beside the toilet seat to bring himself level with us. One hand reaches out, hesitating briefly before brushing hair away from Jessica's face with unexpected tenderness.
"She's unharmed," I assure him quietly. "Emotionally drained, but physically intact."
He nods once, sharp and decisive, his focus never leaving Jessica's tear-stained face. "Give her to me."
It's not a request so much as a statement of what's about to happen. I carefully shift her weight, transferring her from my arms to his with minimal disruption. She stirs slightly during the exchange but doesn't wake, body instinctively curling toward Rook's familiar warmth as he gathers her against his chest.
He stands with her cradled securely in his arms, her head tucked beneath his chin, her hand resting over his heart even in unconsciousness. The rightness of the image strikes me—these two, both so scarred, both so fierce, finding in each other what they've denied needing for so long.
"Marcus gave Elliott a warning," Rook says, voice pitched low enough not to disturb Jessica. "Formal and public. Made it clear that she's under pack protection now and that further harassment would have consequences."
I rise from the toilet seat, stretching slightly to relieve muscles that have been held in one position too long. "And how did our entitled friend take that?"
Rook's lips curl in a humorless smile. "About as well as you'd expect. Blustering, threats, the usual entitled Alpha bullshit. Knox is still there with Marcus, keeping an eye on things."
I nod, processing this information as I begin to pull out a set of black leather gloves from my jacket pocket. The material is supple but reinforced across the knuckles, designed for both protection and impact.
Rook watches me don them with narrowed eyes. "What are you planning?"
I shrug, flexing my fingers to ensure proper fit. "I'm just going to put those bikes back and have a little talk."
The deliberate casualness of my tone doesn't fool Rook for a second. His gaze sharpens, assessing my intention with the clarity that comes from years of violence shared and witnessed.
"Bastian—"
"Keep Nightshade safe," I interrupt, heading toward the door. "I'll be right back."
He doesn't try to stop me—he knows better. Instead, he adjusts his hold on Jessica, ensuring her continued comfort as she sleeps in the shelter of his arms.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he says, the faintest hint of dark humor creeping into his voice.
I pause at the door, looking back at them one last time. "That's not exactly a restrictive parameter."
A smile ghosts across his face, there and gone like lightning. "Exactly."
I leave them there—predator and prey, protector and protected, two broken people finding wholeness in each other's jagged edges. The bathroom door closes quietly behind me as I head back into the corridor, purpose lengthening my stride.
I have two motorcycles to retrieve. And a conversation to initiate with someone who desperately needs to understand exactly what kind of mistake he's made by threatening what's mine.
What's ours.
The thought solidifies as I push through the building's exterior doors, sunlight momentarily blinding after the fluorescent interior. Jessica is pack now—whether she's fully accepted it or not, whether the bonds are officially formalized or not. And I protect what's mine with the single-minded ferocity that earned me my scars, my reputation, and the loyalty of three of the most dangerous Alphas in the territory.
Elliott Prescott Junior is about to learn exactly what that means.