Chapter 23
Julia
My head spun.
Someone tried to kill me tonight.
All I'd wanted after leaving work? Home. Fries. Netflix. Instead, I'd survived a high-speed chase with an assassin who'd targeted both me and Quentin.
We shared an enemy.
Something about this felt wrong—off in a way I couldn't quite pin down yet. But I would. I'd get to the bottom of it, even if it killed me.
But not without food in my stomach.
It seemed like Quentin knew where he was going. "You know my address?"
"It's on your résumé." He accelerated, the engine purring as we merged onto the highway. "I make it a point to know where key employees live. That fact might have saved your life tonight—I knew exactly which route you'd take home."
The way he handled the car—smooth shifts, perfect timing—distracted me from the fact someone had just tried to kill me. "I never learned to drive a stick."
Quentin shifted again. "It's fun." The tires screamed as he flew through the intersection right before the light turned red. "I'll teach you if you'd like."
Maybe I'd learn to drive a stick and challenge Vinny to a race. The thought brought a tired smile. Before tonight, I would've laughed at the idea of needing racing skills to survive. Now? Every assumption I'd made about safety felt dangerously naive.
I should've risked carrying a firearm in the car.
Laws be damned—I'd rather explain an illegal weapon to a cop than die unarmed in a ditch.
And more time at the range. A lot more time.
Having a gun you couldn't shoot accurately wouldn't save your life.
It would just give you false confidence while someone put a bullet in your head.
My hands started shaking.
That first shot tonight—the one that shattered my windshield—had missed my head by inches. Inches. A slight adjustment in the shooter's aim, a small bump in the road, and I'd be on a metal slab right now. Some morgue attendant would be zipping me into a body bag while my family planned my funeral.
I pressed my palms against my thighs to stop the trembling.
I'd come so close to dying tonight. Too close.
I cleared my throat, needing to think about something—anything—else. "What's going to happen to the two Mercedes we left in the field?"
Quentin eased off the gas as the light turned yellow ahead. "Stone will handle it. They'll disappear. No trace, no police reports, no questions. It's better that way."
"Better for whom?"
"Everyone." His jaw tightened. "Whoever came after you tonight is serious. Professional. If the police get involved, it gets messy. Complicated. And we lose control of the situation."
"Control?" I laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Someone just tried to kill me. I don't think I ever had control."
"You do now." He glanced at me, his expression fierce. "Because I'm not letting anyone hurt you. Not while I'm breathing."
The words shouldn't have affected me the way they did. Shouldn't have made warmth bloom in my chest despite everything.
But they did.
More than I wanted to admit.
We pulled into my apartment complex twenty minutes later. Quentin parked in a visitor spot and killed the engine, but made no move to get out.
"Stay here a second." He scanned the parking lot, the building entrance, the shadows between cars. "I want to make sure we weren't followed."
I waited, watching him work. The way his eyes tracked movement, assessed threats, calculated risks. This wasn't paranoia—this was survival. And I was beginning to understand the difference.
"Looks clear." He finally opened his door. "But I'm coming up with you."
"You don't have to—"
"Julia." His voice was firm. "Someone tried to kill you tonight. I'm walking you to your door. Actually, scratch that—I'm clearing your apartment. End of discussion."
Part of me wanted to argue. The independent part that had been trained to handle threats alone.
But another part—the part that was still shaking, still seeing that muzzle flash in my rearview mirror—was grateful.
"Okay."
We took the exterior stairs to my floor. Every shadow made my heart jump. Every sound echoed too loud in the night air.
Quentin stayed close, his hand resting near the gun holstered at his back.
At my door, I fumbled with my keys. My hands were shaking again.
"Here." Quentin took them gently, unlocked the door. "Wait here."
He pushed the door open slowly, hand on his weapon. Listened. Then stepped inside, movements controlled and purposeful.
I followed close behind, my heart hammering. Unarmed. Vulnerable. But not helpless—I knew how to move, how to stay out of his line of fire, how to watch for threats.
"I'll take center and left," Quentin whispered. "You sweep right, then we clear the kitchen and hallway before the bedrooms and bathrooms."
I nodded, adrenaline sharp in my veins. The living room was clear. Nothing out of place. The few lights I'd left on cast familiar shadows.
Kitchen—empty.
Hallway—clear.
"Guest room first?" I whispered.
"Office," he corrected, remembering the layout from my file.
We moved together, a synchronized dance of survival. The office was easy—no closet, glass-top desk, nowhere to hide.
Guest bathroom—clear.
That left my bedroom.
Quentin paused at the closed door, met my eyes. "Stay behind me."
I nodded, positioning myself at an angle where I could see but wouldn't be in his way.
"On three," he said. "I go high. If the room is clear, I take the closet, you watch the bathroom door."
"Got it."
"One. Two. Three." He turned the knob, pushed the door open, took a firing stance with his Glock extended.
The room was empty.
Quentin moved to the closet while I kept my eyes on the bathroom door, ready to shout a warning if anything moved.
He mouthed a countdown. One. Two. Three.
He yanked the closet open. I pushed the bathroom door wide. Both empty. Just my robe hanging on the hook, toiletries on the counter, shower curtain open and innocent.
"Clear!" Quentin called from the bedroom.
"All clear," I echoed.
For a moment, we just stood there, his weapon ready, my heart still pounding.
Then the adrenaline began to fade, leaving exhaustion and something else in its wake.
Relief.
We were alive.
Safe.
Together.
"I need a minute." My voice shook more than I wanted. "That was—"
"Terrifying."
"Yeah."
Quentin holstered his weapon, closed the distance between us. "You did good tonight. Really good. Most people would have panicked."
"I did panic. On the inside. I just didn't have time to show it."
His hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing along my cheekbone. "You're safe now. I promise."
I leaned into his touch, my eyes closing. "Thank you. For following me. For saving my life. For—" My voice cracked. "For everything."
"Julia." He said my name like it meant something. Like I meant something.
I opened my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that stole my breath.
"I need to shower," I whispered. "Get this sauce out of my hair. Get the—" Get the fear off my skin. Get the memory of those bullets out of my head.
"Okay." He stepped back, giving me space. "I'll wait in the living room. Make sure—"
"Stay."
The word came out before I could stop it.
His eyes widened slightly. "Stay?"
"Please." I wasn't thinking clearly. Wasn't thinking at all. I just knew I didn't want to be alone. Didn't want him to leave. "I don't—I can't—"
Understanding flickered across his face. "You don't want to be alone right now."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Okay." His voice was gentle. "I'll stay. I can wait out here, or—"
"Join me."
Holy hell, did I just say that?
The air between us shifted. Charged.
"Julia." My name was a warning. Or a question. Or maybe a prayer. "Are you sure? Because if I—if we—"
"I almost died tonight." The words tumbled out. "Someone shot at me. Tried to run me off the road. And all I can think about is that I don't want to waste any more time being afraid. Being alone. Being—"
He kissed me.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
Hungry. Desperate. Like he'd been holding back for too long and couldn't anymore.
I kissed him back with everything I had, all the fear and adrenaline and want channeling into this moment, this man, this impossible connection.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to mine.
"You're sure?" he whispered.
"I'm sure."
I stepped back, suddenly shy despite what I'd just asked for. "I'm—I'm going to start the water."
"Okay."
I stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the shower. Steam began to fill the small space. My hands shook as I started to undress.
A few minutes later, three sharp knocks sounded on the bathroom door.
My heart jumped.
"It's just me," Quentin's voice came through. "Can I come in?"
I opened the door, wrapped in my bathrobe. He'd removed his holster, set his gun on my dresser. His jacket was gone. But he was still fully dressed otherwise.
"Hello, beautiful." His smile was soft, almost tentative.
"I don't know what to say," I admitted.
"How about, 'would you like to join me?'"
Oh. Right. That's what I'd asked.
"I—" My voice caught. "Yes. I want you to join me."
"Are you nervous?"
"A little."
He stepped closer, his hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "We can stop. Anytime. I made reservations at a restaurant. We can just go to dinner if you want. Just say the word."
"I don't want to stop." The truth of it surprised me. After everything tonight—the terror, the violence, the near-death—I should have been too shaken for this. But instead, I wanted it more. Wanted to feel alive. Wanted to feel something besides fear.
"Then let me." His fingers found the tie of my robe. "May I?"
I nodded.
He slowly loosened the knot, let the fabric fall open. His sharp intake of breath made heat pool low in my belly.
"You're beautiful," he whispered.
"You're overdressed." I let the robe drop to the floor.