Chapter 43 Grace
Grace
One second she was in Luke's arms, his arm iron-hard around her waist. The next, he was turning, moving her behind him with careful control.
"Stay behind me," he said.
Grace stumbled back a step, caught herself, and then she was watching.
There was no hesitation. No wasted movement. He drove Rourke face-first into the grass, knee between his shoulder blades, weight perfectly placed. Luke kicked the knife away from them, the blade skittering across the grass. Rourke shouted something—angry, incoherent—but Luke didn’t take notice.
“Hands behind your back.”
His voice was authoritative. Commanding. Nothing like the man who had said her name into a microphone ten minutes ago like it was a prayer.
The cuffs snapped closed.
Then he looked up. Luke’s eyes met hers, and his mask cracked.
Just for a moment, she saw it—the fear underneath the control. The relief.
Then backup arrived.
Radios crackled. Footsteps thundered across the grass. Voices overlapped—someone calling Rourke's name, someone else collecting the knife.
Mercer appeared beside Luke. "I've got him."
Luke nodded, shifted his weight off Rourke's back. Mercer took custody, hauling the man to his feet.
Luke gave a clipped report—short, professional, the facts only.
But his eyes kept drifting back to Grace.
Every few seconds. Like he couldn't stop himself. Like if he didn't check, she might vanish.
"Bennett," Mercer said, one eyebrow lifting. "You good?"
"Yeah," Luke said, though his jaw was still tight. "I'm good."
Mercer studied him for a second, then nodded and hauled Rourke toward the waiting patrol car.
The crowd had formed a loose circle around them. Teachers. Parents. Festival volunteers. All watching. All wide-eyed.
The EMTs hovered at the edge, waiting.
Mrs. Ellery put her arm around Grace's shoulders. "Sweetheart, are you all right?"
Grace nodded.
Luke turned.
Started toward her.
Grace watched him come toward her. She could see the shift happening with every step—the cop dissolving, the control bleeding away.
By the time he reached her, he just looked like Luke.
Wrecked. Afraid. Hers.
He stopped directly in front of her.
"Grace."
Her name came out rough. Scraped raw.
Before she could answer, his hands were on her face. Gentle. Careful. His thumbs brushed her cheeks as he turned her head, left then right, searching.
"Did he hurt you?"
His eyes were so beautiful.
"I'm okay," she told him.
Luke didn't seem convinced.
His hands slid down to her wrists. He turned them over, palms up, studying. Red marks were already blooming where Rourke had grabbed her.
Luke's thumb brushed over the marks. Feather-light.
"Here?" His voice was tight. "Anywhere else?"
Grace shook her head.
That's when the trembling started.
Just a shiver at first. Then another. Then her whole body.
Her knees felt weak. The ground felt too far away.
Luke pulled her into his arms.
She went willingly, collapsing against his chest. His arms came around her—solid, sure—one hand firm between her shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of her head. The sash proclaiming him marshal pressed against her cheek.
"I've got you," he said, low and steady. "You're safe. I've got you."
Grace pressed her face into his jacket. The fabric smelled like him—soap and coffee and something clean.
She let it happen then.
The shaking. The fear she'd been holding back.
His heartbeat thundered against her ear. Too fast. Still racing. Still catching up to what had almost happened.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, holding on.
"I knew you'd come," she said quietly.
His arms tightened.
When he spoke, his voice was soft and his words a vow. "I'll always come for you."
Grace pulled back just enough to look at him.
Around them, the world was still moving. People talking. Radios crackling. But it all felt distant.
"Luke," she said.
He searched her face, waiting.
"Ask me again."
It took a moment and then she saw understanding wash over his face. His throat worked. For a moment, he looked more terrified than he had facing down Rourke.
"Grace Hart—“
She smiled. She couldn't help it. He looked wrecked. Beautiful.
"Yes," she said immediately. "Obviously yes."
His hands stayed on her, like he was afraid to let go. His eyes closed. Just for a second.
When he opened them again, Grace saw it all—relief, joy, disbelief.
Later she was going to go out to dinner with this man. And he was going to hold her hand and pull out her chair and kiss her goodnight at the end of the date.
And she couldn’t wait.
But right now, she was in Luke’s arms, and she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Around them, the square was slowly reorganising itself. Radios were crackling, a patrol car was visible at the edge of the green. The EMTs had arrived within minutes, efficient and calm, and Luke stepped back just far enough to let them work.
They had checked her over—pulse, pupils, the red marks on her wrists that were already fading to pink. They'd asked if she wanted to go to the hospital. She'd said no.
Grace's legs still felt unsteady. She was glad that Luke had stayed beside her the entire time, close enough that their shoulders touched, his hand warm and solid at the small of her back.
Now the EMTs were packing up, and the crowd had mostly dispersed back to their booths and games, though Grace could feel eyes on them. Watching. Wondering.
Before she could feel self conscious, a familiar voice called out.
"There you are!"
Hannah appeared, Jake Cooper right behind her. Hannah's face was flushed, her eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like tears.
"Are you okay?" Hannah reached for Grace's hands. "I saw what happened, and then the crowd, and I couldn't get to you—"
"I'm fine," Grace assured her. "Luke got him."
Hannah's gaze flicked to Luke, then back to Grace. Something passed between them—a whole conversation in a look.
"Good," Hannah said firmly.
Jake nodded at Luke. "Hell of a tackle, man."
"Thanks." Luke's voice was easy, but Grace felt him tense slightly beside her.
"About time, too," Jake added, eyes glinting with amusement. "I was starting to think you'd never pull your head out of your—"
"Jake," Hannah warned.
"—situation," Jake finished smoothly. He grinned at Grace. "He's been miserable for weeks. Just FYI."
"Jake," Luke said, low and warning.
"What? I'm being supportive." Jake's grin widened. "This is me being supportive."
Hannah rolled her eyes fondly. "We're going to get cider. Grace, if you need anything—"
"I'll find you," Grace promised.
Hannah squeezed her hand once more, and then she and Jake disappeared into the crowd.
Grace turned to Luke. "Miserable for weeks?"
His ears were pink. "Jake talks too much."
"You should've been miserable." She poked him in the chest with one finger. "You were an idiot."
"I was," he agreed readily. "Complete idiot."
"And you hurt me."
"I know." His voice went serious. "Grace, I—"
"But you showed up," she continued, cutting him off. "You kept showing up. And today..." She gestured vaguely at the festival, at the gazebo where he'd stood with a microphone.
Luke's throat worked. "You asked me first. You were the brave one.”
They stood there for a moment, the noise of the festival washing around them.
Luke's hand slid from her back to her hand, fingers threading through hers.
"Come on," he said quietly.
Grace looked up at him. "Where?"
"Anywhere you want." His thumb brushed across her knuckles. "Your choice."
She glanced around the festival grounds—the same booths and games and smells that had been there an hour ago, but everything felt different now.
Luke Bennett was holding her hand.
In public.
In the middle of the fall festival.
Where everyone could see.
"Grace?" His voice pulled her back. "You okay?"
She nodded. Then, because that wasn't quite true: "I don't know what to do."
His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I've never—" She gestured vaguely at the festival, at their joined hands, at the space between them that suddenly felt charged with possibility. "We've never done this. The public thing."
Understanding softened his expression. "Then we figure it out together." He squeezed her hand gently. "What do you want to do? We can leave if you want. Go somewhere quiet."
Grace looked at the festival again. At the booths she'd helped set up. At the families and neighbors and the town she'd spent her whole life proving herself to.
"No," she said slowly. "I want to stay."
Luke's smile was small but genuine. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She took a breath. "I want to walk around. I want—" She felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I want people to see us."
"Good." He lifted their joined hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Because I'm not letting go."
They started walking.
Grace was acutely aware of everything—the weight of his hand in hers, the way he adjusted his stride to match hers, the glances from people they passed.
Mrs. Keaton looked up from the quilting booth and smiled. Actually smiled. "Grace, dear! Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Grace said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded.
"That was quite a scare." Mrs. Keaton's eyes flicked to Luke, then back to Grace. Approving. "I'm glad Officer Bennett was there."
"Me too," Grace said quietly.
Luke's hand tightened around hers.
They kept walking.
Past the bake sale, where Mrs. Ellery pressed a cookie into Grace's free hand with a knowing look. Past the apple cider stand, where the volunteer's eyes went wide and then determinedly neutral. Past the craft tent, where Mr. Wilson called out, "Looking good, Bennett!"
Luke waved without letting go of Grace's hand.
"This is surreal," Grace murmured.
"Good surreal or bad surreal?"
She considered. "I'm not sure yet."
They stopped at the ring toss. Luke pulled out his wallet, paid for three rings, and handed them to Grace.
"I'm terrible at this,” she said.
"I know." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "I've seen you try every year."