Chapter 14
It’s been a week of tailing Blake since our hospital encounter.
Seven days of waking up, watching, and waiting.
Hidden in the building across the street, I’ve been following her comings and goings through a pair of binoculars and a cracked window.
She is meticulous. In this short time, I’ve come to know the routine of her days almost as well as she does.
From the hospital lobby to the endless corridors, to the tiny employee shuttle, where she stares out the window instead of into a book or phone.
How her fingers curl tightly around the strap of her tote bag when someone wanders a little too close.
Or the way she always tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and chews on her lower lip when she’s deep in thought.
She pauses before crossing streets, not for traffic, but for people.
She notices patterns. She notices exits. She just doesn’t notice me. But that will soon change…
She moves through her life like she isn’t being measured and quietly assessed by forces she doesn’t see. Meanwhile, I’ve been calculating distances, memorizing her habits, and preparing for the moment when something goes wrong. Because it will. It always does.
The smell of roasting spices, fried bread, and overripe fruit hangs in the air as I slip through the market stalls, blending with the sea of shoppers.
This place is chaos incarnate. People walk crammed, shoulder to shoulder, as vendors bark prices in a language I don’t understand and music clashes with the hiss of hot oil.
Blake is so small that, even with my eyes locked on her, I nearly lose her in the crowd.
She moves through them like water pouring through cracks, graceful without trying.
I can’t say the same about me. At nearly double the size of the people around me, I struggle to weave through them without inadvertently shouldering every other person I push past.
As I work my way around an elderly couple, I notice another man pushing through the crowd.
He’s in his mid-thirties, average height, and wearing a nondescript black polo and khaki pants.
It’s the kind of uniform that professionals wear to blend like a shadow.
He mirrors her movements, staying exactly thirty feet behind her.
Not close enough for her to notice him, but not far enough that he’ll lose her in the crowd. After all, I would know.
I stop, slipping behind a display of scarves, letting the fabric and color swallow me whole as I tuck my comms into my ear. “You spot the guy in the black polo and khakis?” My voice is low so as not to draw attention.
“There are about five hundred guys in black polos and khakis.” Gunnar’s voice drawls back, dry and unhelpful. “I’m going to need you to narrow it down a little more. And don’t say he has dark hair.”
I smirk, despite the tightening tension prickling under my skin. “The one who hasn’t been more than thirty feet from her since she hit the spice stalls.”
There is a brief silence on the comm. “Ah. Copy. I see him.”
“Grab him. See what he wants with her.”
“You think he’ll tell me if I ask nicely?” Gunnar deadpans.
“What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Doc?” I mutter to myself.
The man follows her with the precision of a predator, the quiet and steady fearlessness of a trained professional. He creeps with the ease of someone who knows exactly how this ends. I know that look… I’ve worn it more than a few times.
Blake steps into a narrow alleyway between a few vendor stalls.
The noise of the market falls away like a curtain dropping, and I see it hit her all at once.
Shadows stretch across her face; it’s hollowed with pure, unfiltered terror.
Her hands clutch the straps of her tote bag, and her shoulders tense as if she’s preparing to shrink into herself.
The man steps closer, closing what little distance was left between him. I can’t hear his words from here, but the way she recoils, her chin lifts defiantly, and her arms cross across her chest, I know for certain something isn’t right.
I shove through the crowd, my heart thumping, as Gunnar’s voice cuts through the comms, steady and infuriatingly calm. “Don’t engage.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Or I could save her.”
“Or fucking don’t listen to me,” he grumbles, as I yank the piece from my ear. After shoving it back into my pack, I use my size to my advantage and bulldoze through the people separating me from her. I step into view just as the man reaches behind his back for what I can only assume is a weapon.
“Dr. Hart?” I call brightly, and far too loudly, as I walk toward them. “Dr. Hart? Hey! I thought it was you!”
The man stiffens. As he freezes, his eyes flick to me, irritation flashing before it morphs into something even colder. He grouses under his breath and steps backward, disappearing into the shadows with a curt whisper. Fucking coward.
I take a step toward Blake, closing the distance between us but stopping well short of her personal space with my palms up in exaggerated surrender and a broad smile across my face. “Hey.”
She stares back at me, wide-eyed. Her lips are pressed into a thin line like she isn’t sure whether or not I’m a threat. It takes a moment, but her body relaxes slightly. “You’re… you’re—”
“The mildly delusional guy who definitely doesn’t have a sprained ankle. Or Jagger for short,” I finish for her. Her gaze flits down the now-empty alley, then back to me. I nod toward the market. “How about we get out of murder row before it starts smelling like regret and poor life choices?”
She catches her laugh, glaring at me like she’s annoyed that I’m actually charming and a little funny. “Fine,” she huffs before stepping past me.
We reenter the market, swallowed by the throng of stalls, and quickly blend in with the crowd.
I walk beside her in silence, matching her pace and letting her know that I’m not a threat.
I can feel the tension bleeding off her in tiny increments with every stride, though her jaw stays tight and she keeps glancing over her shoulder. Don’t worry, Doc… I’ve got you.
“So…” I start conversationally, keeping my tone deliberately light, “you come here often?”
She looks up at me and rolls her eyes at the cheesy line. “Every now and then. I like the produce here better than the little market by the hospital.”
I raise a brow, glancing around at the overflowing crates and hanging herbs. “Makes sense. It’s hard to beat fruit this fresh.”
Her lips twitch, almost to a smile. “And I get to meet the locals.”
“Truly living dangerously,” I acknowledge, referring to the man in the alley.
She huffs softly. “That’s not the kind of people I come out here to meet.”
“Noted.” I tilt my head. “I’m not big on cornering women, but I get it. You do kind of have a talent for standing out.”
She gives me a sideways look, skeptical but curious. “You say that like it’s intentional.”
“Maybe not, but some people draw attention whether they want it or not. You’re one of them.”
She considers that for a moment, then exhales a small huff of a laugh. “You’re awfully confident for someone who barely knows me.”
“Occupational hazard,” I reply. “Reading people is kind of my thing.”
Her gaze lingers on me a second longer before she looks ahead, and I catch the moment her shoulders ease—just a fraction—as if she’s decided I’m not entirely full of shit.
She shakes her head, amusement flickering across her face, and I notice it—the way her brown eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. The way her posture loosens, a fraction, like she’s finally letting herself breathe.
We move from stall to stall, passing baskets of bright vegetables and fragrant spices, making small talk about trivial things: which fruits we prefer and which bread is worth the wait at an upcoming stall.
She relaxes incrementally, her sarcasm sharpening as her fear dulls until she’s throwing quips and sarcastic remarks back at me.
Her humor is dry and understated, but it hits like a punch.
At a tomato stand, she pauses for a second as she reaches toward the basket. It’s almost imperceptible, but my week of surveillance has trained me well. “Everything okay?” I ask softly, keeping one eye on the crowd.
“Fine.” She dips her head with a curt smile, turning over the fruit in her hand. “Just checking that they’re ripe and don’t have bruises.”
I nod, unconvinced, scanning the sea of people for the man in the black polo or any other potential shadows as we walk through the maze of vendors.
“Listen, you should be careful,” I share casually as we turn a corner. Right now, she’s in front of me and safe. Though I can’t help but wonder if she realizes exactly how big a threat that man actually was, or if there are more men with him. “Not everyone here is… friendly.”
Her gaze slides to me, wary and a bit suspicious. “I’m aware,” she exhales.
“I’m just saying, it’s probably best if you don’t come here alone.” I pause, my warning hanging between us as the already-thick air grows palpably tense. She doesn’t need more threats, dumbass. She needs reassurance. “If you want someone to come here with you, I’d be more than willing.”
She lets out a small breath and lightly grasps my forearm. “Thanks.”
I smile genuinely. “Anytime.”
“What brought you here today?” she asks, her hand sliding from my arm.
“I was working,” I answer, omitting the part about my job being to watch her, as we stop at a fruit stall.
I reach for a couple of apples, extending one toward her.
Her fingers brush against mine—brief and electric—as she takes it from my hand.
The way her breath stutters for a second before she schools it, I’m certain she noticed it, too.
“If you’re working… don’t let me get you into trouble.”
“Too late,” I reply smoothly with a flirtatious smirk. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t try to hide the faint trace of a smile pulling at the corner of her lips.
Lost in her deep chocolate eyes, I’m already in a world of trouble.