Chapter 24 DECLAN
DECLAN
The air at the botanical gardens smells like damp earth, crushed leaves, and distant roses. It should be peaceful. It isn't.
The sun beats down on my neck, but I don't move from my position.
Hours I've been standing here, watching Jade pose among exotic plants and ornamental ponds of the Botanical Gardens.
Hours of maintaining my vigilance while fighting the knowledge that soon, I won't have the right to protect her anymore.
The stalker's been caught. The threat neutralized. My job, our job, is technically done.
Ethan hasn't said as much yet, but I know my oldest friend.
He's already fielding calls about potential new clients, high-profile politicians needing security for upcoming campaigns.
It's good business sense. Cross Security can't afford to keep a three-man team on a single client when the danger has passed, especially when that client only hired us for a specific threat.
Mateo slouches against a nearby tree, scrolling through his phone, occasionally scanning the perimeter. His casual posture belies the alertness I know he maintains at all times. He's been different since Bali. Quieter. More focused.
I know why. The same reason Ethan's been brooding more than usual. The same reason I've barely slept these past few nights.
And that reason is now standing at the center of an elaborate flower display, copper hair gleaming in the sunlight, her slender body draped in some flowing green fabric that matches her eyes.
Even after weeks of guarding her, I still find myself caught off-guard by her beauty. Not just the obvious physical perfection that's made her famous, but something deeper. Resilience. A hidden strength most people never see beneath the polished exterior.
I've seen it, though. Witnessed her quiet determination, her hard-won independence, her careful kindness to those who work for her. Noticed how she remembers the names of every staff member, asks after their families, ensures they're treated with respect.
And I've seen her vulnerability too. The nights she doesn't sleep. The way she tenses when men stand too close behind her. The careful walls she's built to keep the world at a distance.
I understand walls. I've built plenty of my own.
The photographer calls for a break, and Jade steps carefully off the platform, accepting a bottle of water from her assistant.
Her gaze drifts across the gardens, finding me in my position by the Japanese maple.
A small smile curves her lips, there and gone in an instant, but enough to make something twist in my chest.
I don't deserve that smile. Not after the things I've done. The mistakes I've made. The time I've served.
She kissed Ethan. Nearly broke him with it, from what I could tell from his haunted expression afterward. And Mateo, something happened between them in Bali too, something neither of them has spoken about but that hangs in the air between them like electricity before a storm.
I don't feel jealousy about this, which surprises me. If anything, I feel... understanding. Of course she'd be drawn to them. Ethan with his steady leadership, his unwavering moral compass. Mateo with his easy charm, his open heart. They're good men. Whole men.
They know how to handle beauty and softness. I'm not built like them. I'm not made for easy affection.
Not someone with my past, my darkness, my hands that have done violence I can never fully atone for.
The shoot resumes, stretching through the afternoon.
I maintain my position, alert to every movement in the surrounding areas as visitors wander through the gardens.
Most recognize Jade, stopping to stare or whisper behind their hands.
Some brazenly take photos with their phones. I glare until they move along.
Finally, as the sun begins its descent, the photographer calls it a wrap. The crew begins packing equipment while Jade slips behind a screen to change back into her own clothes, simple black pants and a white t-shirt that somehow looks more elegant on her than designer gowns do on most women.
Jade thanks the crew, gracious even in exhaustion, and starts walking toward me. Her posture relaxes the moment she's in my orbit, like she knows she can stop performing.
Before she reaches me, a man steps into her path. Mid-thirties, khaki shorts, tourist-looking, with a little girl, maybe five or six, clutching his hand.
Instantly, I'm moving, crossing the space in long strides.
"Excuse me, Jade," the man is saying as I reach them. "My daughter's a huge fan. Could we possibly get a quick selfie?"
"Ms. Sinclair doesn't do selfies," I state flatly, stepping slightly in front of Jade, my bulk creating a barrier between her and the stranger.
The little girl's face falls, her wide eyes filling with disappointment, her little chin starting to tremble. Jade places a gentle hand on my arm, the touch burning through my shirt sleeve.
"It's okay, Declan," she says softly. Then, to the man and child: "I'd be happy to take a photo. What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Lily," the girl whispers, suddenly shy in the presence of her idol.
Jade crouches down to the child's level, her smile genuine and warm. "That's a beautiful name, Lily. Should we take that picture?"
The father beams, already raising his phone with one hand. Jade stands, positioning herself beside them, that professional smile in place.
I watch closely, years of training keeping my attention on the man's free hand, the one not holding the phone.
It moves behind Jade as they pose, and I see the exact moment his fingers make contact.
The slight widening of Jade's eyes, the flinch she can't quite suppress as he touches her inappropriately.
Red fills my vision.
Three steps and I have him by the collar, yanking him away from Jade and the little girl. His phone clatters to the ground as I slam him against the nearest tree trunk, my forearm across his throat.
"What the fu—" he starts, but I press harder, cutting off his words.
"If you ever touch a woman without her consent again," I growl, my voice low enough that only he can hear, "I will find you, and I will break every finger on your hands one by one. Starting with the ones you just used."
His face pales, eyes bulging with fear.
"Declan." Jade's voice penetrates the red haze of my rage. Her hand touches my arm, gentle but firm. "Let him go. His daughter is watching."
I glance over to see the little girl frozen in place, eyes wide with confusion and the beginnings of fear. The sight douses my anger like cold water. I've scared a child. Become the monster again.
I release the man, who stumbles away, grabbing his daughter's hand.
"You're crazy, man," he spits, though he keeps a safe distance. "We were just taking a picture."
"And you were just sexually assaulting my client," I counter, still keeping my voice low. "Leave. Now. Before I change my mind about letting you walk away."
He hesitates for just a moment, then tugs his daughter away, hurrying toward the exit. The little girl glances back once, her innocent face troubled.
Shame washes over me, followed by a renewed surge of anger. At him, at myself, at the world that makes predators of men and victims of women.
"Declan." Jade's voice again, softer now. "It's okay. I'm fine."
I can't look at her. Can't bear to see disappointment or, worse, fear in her eyes. "He touched you."
"Yes," she acknowledges quietly. "And while I appreciate your protection, that little girl didn't need to see violence. She didn't need to learn yet what kind of man her father is."
She's right, of course. But the rage still burns in my chest, needing somewhere to go, something to do. My hands clench and unclench at my sides.
"Come with me," she says suddenly, taking my hand. The unexpected contact startles me enough that I don't resist as she leads me away from the main garden, down a winding path toward a large glass structure.
I should protest. Should tell her we need to rejoin Mateo, return to the secured vehicle, and maintain protocol. But the feel of her small hand in mine silences these objections.
The butterfly house is warm and humid, a tropical microclimate filled with lush foliage and vibrant flowers.
True to its name, delicate winged creatures float through the air around us.
As Jade predicted, it's empty of other visitors this late in the day.
A sign near the entrance indicates the facility closes in fifteen minutes.
Jade releases my hand once we're inside, moving further into the glass-enclosed space. I follow, my senses automatically registering exits, potential hiding places, threat vectors, even as my mind remains fixated on the lingering warmth of her touch.
Butterflies flutter around us, wings of blue and orange and yellow catching the late afternoon light. They seem drawn to Jade, one even landing briefly on her copper hair before fluttering away.
"Declan, I need you to breathe with me."
The request catches me off-guard. "What?"
"Your breathing is too shallow. You're still angry." She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light and floral that suits her. "Close your eyes."
I hesitate, every instinct rejecting the idea of closing my eyes, of not watching, not being alert.
"Trust me," she says softly. "Nothing will happen here. Just for a minute, trust me."
Against my better judgment, I close my eyes.
"Now," her voice comes, gentle but firm, "breathe in through your nose. Count to four."
I comply, drawing air slowly into my lungs.
"Hold for four."
I do.
"Out through your mouth for four."
The air leaves my lungs in a controlled exhale.
"Again," she instructs.
We repeat this several times. With each cycle, I feel the rage ebbing, the red haze receding, replaced by an awareness of other things: the humid warmth of the air, the distant sound of water trickling somewhere, the rustle of wings, the scent of her standing close.