Chapter 19 Capture
Chapter Nineteen
Capture
“Shit,” Jack hissed as her body folded against him, a marionette with severed strings.
He caught her before she hit the ground, one arm hooking beneath her knees, the other bracing her spine as her head lolled against his chest. Dead weight. Breakable as bird bones wrapped in bruised skin.
“Sir?” Cole stepped forward, rain slicking his tactical vest. “Would you like us to take it from here?”
Jack shifted her higher, moving his jacket to drape over her front and shield her from the eyes of men who had no business seeing what lay beneath. The fabric swallowed her.
When he looked up, Cole stood frozen, waiting for instruction. The two officers at his back stared as well.
One officer touched his ear and reported, “Medical team’s standing by at the grotto.”
Cole continued to stare at Jack, uncertainty bleeding through his stiff posture. “Protocol says—”
“Protocol won’t be necessary.”
Silence.
Rain fell harder, a steady tempo pelting the jacket that covered her limp body as he held her close. The passing storm needled Jack’s face, soaking through the fine wool of his waistcoat until the fabric clung to his chest like a second skin.
Cole exchanged a glance with the two remaining officers. “Sir, she’s injured. The lacerations on her feet alone—”
“Have medical supplies and towels sent to my suite.”
No one moved.
Jack turned in the opposite direction of the safe zone and headed toward the lodge. Toward the maze of hedges and fog that would swallow them both.
“Sir.” Cole fell into step beside him, boots squelching in the wet grass. “This is irregular.”
Jack was more than aware, but he had no explanation to offer so he kept walking.
The moment the two other men fell into step, Cole turned. “Patrol the perimeter until I radio further instruction.”
The two officers peeled off into the darkness as Jack navigated the labyrinth of gardens through the rain and shadows. He knew this property. Every hidden corridor. Every forgotten acre. Every shortcut carved through overgrown hedgerows.
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.
His gaze moved from Jack to the woman on the bed.
Silence stretched taut.
“Close the door.”
Nick obeyed, stepping inside and pulling it shut with a soft click.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask the obvious questions. He simply waited, the way he’d waited through decades of Jack’s silences.
In the growing firelight, she looked worse than he’d realized.
Blood had dried in a dark rivulet from her temple to her jaw.
A bruise bloomed purple across her cheekbone, the skin already swelling.
Her arms and legs bore a map of scratches and scrapes, some still oozing, others crusted over with dried blood.
Her feet needed attention. “First aid—”
“There’s a kit in the bathroom.” Nick was already moving.
Jack looked away from her feet, back to her porcelain face.
Fingers twitching, he studied her in stillness. Why had she turned back? She was so close to getting away. Why?
His hand moved slowly, hovering inches from her cheek. Then settled against her chilled skin, his thumb tracing the edge of the bruise with a gentleness that surprised even him. Her skin burned cold beneath his touch. Glass-like. Fragile as frost.
“Sir.” Nick’s voice came softly. Cautious. “The first aid.”
He didn’t move. Couldn’t look away.
“Shall I call for the medic?”
“No.”
“Her injuries require attention. The head wound alone—”
“I said no.”
Nick fell silent. Jack sensed him watching, sensed the weight of his concern pressing against the space between them.
“Leave us.”
A pause. Then he set the first aid on the nightstand. “Sir, this is unlike you.”
“I’m aware.”
Nick’s concern pushed into him like a surging wave. “The protocols exist for a reason. The tributes are—”
“I know what they are.”
“Do you?” Nick’s voice sharpened, the formal veneer cracking. “Because from where I stand, this looks less like charity and more like—”
“More like what?” Jack turned, his storm-grey eyes meeting Nick’s with a ferocity that made the older man step back. “Say it.”
Nick held his gaze. Behind his glasses, his eyes carried the same quiet intensity they’d carried all those years ago, when he’d taught a broken boy about fallen kings and the weight of power.
“More like obsession,” Nick said quietly. “And I’ve seen what obsession can do to good men.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Leave.”
Nick didn’t move. “Jack.” The use of his name landed like a blow. “The road to ruin is paved by men who convinced themselves they were saving someone.”
Censure hardened in his eyes, but Jack didn’t care. Not this time. “Thank you, Mr. Carrow. That will be all.”
A long moment passed. Then Nick moved toward the door. His hand rested on the knob.
“There are sedatives in your grooming case, should she wake distressed.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Nick paused. “As you wish.” The door opened and closed quietly.
Jack stood in silence.
The fire crackled, throwing shadows across the walls like Plato’s cave. Rain slowed its assault against the windows, sliding in dreary surrender down the dark glass.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, but Daisy still didn’t stir. The screen glowed blue in the dark. Hunter Volkov. It pulsed like a heartbeat in his palm, demanding an answer.
Jack silenced the call and set the phone beside the medical supplies kit.
His fingers peeled back the edge of wet fabric blanketing her, firelight painting her in shades of gold and shadow.
Remnants of The Becoming clung to her like imprinted memories, worn thin by time.
The dove-grey bra covered her skin like moonlight, translucent where water had soaked through, revealing the dusky peaks of her nipples beneath the gossamer-thin covering.
Delicate lace darkened by rain, and tiny pearls caught the light like scattered stars.
Below her defined ribs, the intricate garter belt hugged her narrow waist, its silk tapes still clipped to what remained of her sheer stockings, shredded at the calf from hours of running. A mud-stained tear showed a scrape at the knee. The lace trim hung in tatters around her bruised thighs.
His gaze roamed higher, deliberately staring at the apex of her thighs where downy curls lay like soft golden feathers. No barrier of satin and ribbon covered her from view. Just bare skin, pale as moonlight, and a delicate thatch of hair.
The tributes were typically waxed smooth. He knew this because he approved every detail of The Becoming, with advice from beauty experts from around the world to ensure nothing was overlooked.
But she had kept this.
His finger twitched, the temptation to touch what she somehow managed to save urging him to test the softness. Instead, he balled his hand into a tight fist, forcing each of his knuckles to pop.
A small defiance that stirred his blood. Not smooth, like a girl, but lush and feminine, like a woman.
Heat pooled low in his belly despite the cold still rattling his bones.
Earrings glinted at her lobes. Delicate crystal drops that caught the firelight and threw tiny rainbows across her collarbone. Someone had chosen them to complement her mask and gown. Both gone now.
No more illusions.
Only truth remained.
Jack’s gaze traveled back to her face. To the bruise darkening her cheek. To the blood crusted at her temple. To the soft part of her lips as shallow breaths escaped.
He should cover her. Locate his abandoned composure.
His hand moved of its own accord. Fingers trembling from cold and nothing more.
He ignored the lie as much as he ignored the jacket and bedcovers. Slowly, he reached toward the swell of her breast, the wet lace rising and falling with each deep breath.
Closer.
His fingers extended, hovering a mere breath away from the sharp point of her nipple, when her gasp cut through the air like a knife, severing his focus.
His gaze locked with her pale, wild eyes, bright with terror, and dark accusation.
Excuses died in his throat as language deserted him.
He’d forgotten the weight of guilt like this, but shame was an old, familiar friend he knew intimately by name. And he swallowed it down with a lift of his chin, just like he’d done when he was a boy.