Chapter Thirteen
Theo
I was nursing a coffee in the lobby when I caught sight of her through the glass doors.
Jasmine stood just outside the entrance, her slim frame wrapped in that oversized peacoat we'd found her in, despite the warmer clothes now hanging in her closet.
The morning light hit her face as she tilted her head back to look up at the building's impossible height, and something in my chest clenched.
She looked so small out there, so exposed, and every protective instinct I'd spent years honing kicked into overdrive.
The coffee cup was warm in my hand, almost too hot, but I barely felt it.
My attention was fixed on her through the glass, watching the way she hugged herself against the winter chill, the way her breath fogged the air in front of her face.
She'd ventured outside for the first time since we'd brought her here.
That was progress, I supposed. Or maybe it was just cabin fever finally overriding her fear of the outside world.
I set the coffee down on a nearby table and moved closer to the doors, positioning myself where I could see her clearly but wouldn't be immediately visible if she turned around.
Not stalking. Just... monitoring. Making sure she was safe.
That's what I told myself anyway, even as I acknowledged the lie.
I wanted to be near her. Wanted to make sure nothing threatened her.
Wanted to see that expression on her face, the one where wonder briefly overtook the fear that usually lived in her green eyes.
The cold pressed against the glass doors, and I could see frost patterns forming at the edges of the panes.
Winter in the city was brutal, all sharp edges and frozen concrete.
The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and didn't let go.
Jasmine had lived through months of that on the streets, had sung through it, had survived it somehow. The thought made my jaw clench.
She shifted her weight, favoring her right ankle.
The left one was still healing, still giving her trouble despite the medical attention we'd arranged.
I'd noticed her limping less over the past few days, but the injury was deeper than we'd initially thought.
Another thing that made me want to find whoever had hurt her and make them understand what pain really meant.
I forced myself to breathe, to let go of the anger that wanted to surface. That wasn't helpful. Wasn't what she needed from me.
Through the glass, I watched her turn slowly, taking in the street, the other buildings, the flow of morning traffic.
Her shoulders were hunched, her defensive posture making her look even smaller.
But her eyes were tracking everything, cataloging, assessing.
Street survival instincts that probably wouldn't fade for a long time, if ever.
Then I saw him.
The man appeared from around the corner of the building, moving fast, his gait purposeful in a way that immediately set off alarm bells. Camera in hand, a professional rig with a long lens. Paparazzi. My muscles tensed before my brain fully processed the threat.
He was on Jasmine before she registered his presence.
The camera flash went off, bright and intrusive, and I was already moving, pushing through the glass doors into the sharp bite of winter air.
“Excuse me, miss!” The reporter’s voice was aggressive, demanding, the kind of tone that tolerated no refusal. “Who are you? Are you the record company's new pet project?”
Another flash. Another invasion of her space.
Jasmine froze completely. I saw it happen, the way every muscle in her body locked up, and her eyes went wide with fear that came from trauma. Her breathing changed, became shallow and rapid, visible in the fog of her exhaled breath.
The reporter moved closer, his camera raised for another shot. “What's your connection to Kade Killion? Are you his new acquisition? How much is he paying you?”
The questions were designed to provoke, to get a reaction that would make a good story. And Jasmine was giving him one, but not the kind he probably wanted. She was shutting down, her body language screaming distress, her hands coming up in a defensive gesture that made my blood pressure spike.
I covered the distance between us in four long strides, my body moving on autopilot, every protective instinct I'd ever cultivated laser-focused on getting between her and this threat.
I didn't run. Didn't need to. I just moved with purpose, my broad shoulders clearing the space, and suddenly I was there, my body a wall between Jasmine and the camera.
“Back off,” I said, keeping my voice level despite the anger burning in my gut. The scar on my face pulled tight with the tension in my jaw.
The reporter lowered his camera slightly, taking in my size, my position, the unmistakable message my posture was sending. But he didn't back away. They never did, not immediately. They were used to pushing boundaries, to taking what they wanted, regardless of who got hurt.
He laughed. “Ah, Theo Danvers, are you her bodyguard now?” he asked, already raising the camera again, trying to angle around me to get another shot of Jasmine.
“Do I know you?”
“No, but everyone knows you. Kade’s head of security and number one pack dog.” I growled. He was pissing me off. “Tell me, Theo. Does Killion hire protection for all his projects?”
I shifted my position, blocking his angle, my hands loose at my sides but ready. I could smell him now, cheap cologne and stale cigarettes mixing with the exhaust fumes from passing traffic. The scent made my nose wrinkle.
“I'm someone who's suggesting you try official channels for interviews,” I said, injecting a note of dark humor into my voice that didn't quite mask the threat underneath.
“You know, those things where you call ahead, make an appointment, act like a professional instead of ambushing people on the street.”
The camera flash went off again, this time aimed at me. Fine. Let him photograph me. Better me than her.
Behind me, I could hear Jasmine's breathing, still too fast, edged with panic. The sound of it made my protective instincts ratchet up another level, made my hands curl into fists before I forced them to relax. Violence wasn't the answer here. Not yet, anyway.
“Public sidewalk,” the reporter said, smirking. “Freedom of the press. I have every right to be here.”
Technically true. Legally, he wasn't doing anything wrong by standing on a public street taking photographs. But legal and right weren't always the same thing, and the fear radiating from Jasmine behind me was making it hard to care about technicalities.
“You're right,” I said, keeping my voice conversational, almost friendly. “Absolutely right. You can stand here all day.” I paused, letting a beat of silence stretch. “Of course, I can stand here all day too. Getting between you and any shots you might want to take. Funny how that works.”
His smirk faltered slightly. He was calculating now, weighing whether the effort was worth it, whether he could get around me, or if I'd just keep blocking him.
I let him see exactly how immovable I could be.
Let my shoulders square, my stance widen just slightly.
I'd been trained in protective work, had spent years learning how to use my body as a shield, how to project the kind of presence that made people reconsider their choices. This was second nature.
“Look,” I said, modulating my voice to something more reasonable, “I get it.
You've got a job to do. But so do I, and right now my job is making sure she's comfortable.
You want an interview, a photo shoot, whatever, then call the main office.
Set something up properly. But ambushing someone who's clearly distressed?
That's not going to get you what you want.”
Behind me, Jasmine made a small sound, barely audible, but I heard it. A whimper, maybe, or just a sharp intake of breath. The sound went straight through me, and I had to focus hard on not letting my anger show on my face.
The reporter lifted his camera one more time, got off three quick shots of me, of the building, and of the general scene, then finally lowered it. “Tell Killion I'll be calling,” he said, already backing away. “And tell him keeping secrets just makes the story more interesting.”
I watched him retreat down the sidewalk and didn't move until he'd turned the corner and disappeared from view. Even then, I waited another few seconds, making sure he would not circle back, would not try again from a different angle.
The winter air was sharp in my lungs, cold enough to sting. Fumes from passing cars created a haze at street level, mixing with the smell of wet concrete from patches of melting snow.
I turned slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, and found Jasmine exactly where I'd left her. Still frozen. Still in that defensive posture that made her look like she was bracing for a blow.
Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated with fear, and her breathing was too fast, too shallow.
The apple pie sweetness of her scent was tainted with something sharp and acrid—fear pheromones that made my Alpha instincts roar with the need to comfort, to protect, to eliminate whatever had caused this reaction.
But I forced myself to stay still, not to crowd her, but to let her process what had just happened at her own pace.
“Jasmine,” I said softly, keeping my voice low and gentle. “You're okay. He's gone.”
She blinked, the motion slow, as if she were coming back from somewhere far away. Her gaze focused on me, recognition dawning, and then her eyes filled with tears that didn't quite fall.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaking, barely audible over the street noise. “I’m sorry; I didn't know what to do.”
“I know,” I said, feeling for her as she looked down at the pavement. “You don't have to apologize.” She looked up and nodded.
I took a careful step toward her, watching for any sign that my proximity was unwelcome. When she didn't pull back, didn't flinch, I took it as permission to move closer.
“Let's get you inside,” I said, reaching out slowly, touching her elbow. Not gripping, not controlling, just offering guidance and support. “It's too cold out here anyway.”
She nodded, still not speaking, and let me guide her toward the glass doors. She was trembling, fine shivers running through her body.
The lobby's warmth hit us as we stepped inside, the contrast making my face sting slightly from the temperature change.
I steered Jasmine away from the main entrance, toward a quieter corner where a set of leather chairs sat near a decorative fountain.
The sound of water trickling over stones created a buffer against the lobby's ambient noise.
“Sit,” I said, gesturing to one of the chairs. “Just for a minute. Catch your breath.”
She sank into the chair as if her legs had given out, her body folding in on itself. Her hands were shaking as she pulled them into her lap, trying to hide the tremors.
I stayed standing, positioned myself so I was between her and the glass doors, blocking the view of the street. If that paparazzo came back, if anyone else tried to approach, they'd have to go through me first.
My heart was still pounding, adrenaline coursing through my muscles, making them tense and ready.
The protective instinct that had surged when I'd seen that camera flash in Jasmine's face hadn't subsided.
If anything, it had intensified, settling into something deeper and more permanent, as I realized she was mine to protect now.
I looked down at her, saw her breathing slowing, and saw some of the panic drain from her expression. Her green eyes met mine, and something passed between us. Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.
“You didn't have to do that,” she breathed, her voice still shaky but stronger than the whisper from outside.
“Yeah, I did,” I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being. “That's what I'm here for.”
She studied my face, her gaze tracking the scar that ran up the right side, the evidence of violence I'd survived. I let her look, didn't turn away, or try to hide it. If she were going to trust me, she needed to see all of me, scars included.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, surprising me with the question. “Your scar.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “It did when it was fresh. Now it's just part of me.”
She nodded slowly, like the answer meant something to her, like maybe she understood scars were just proof you'd survived something.
Her hands had stopped shaking as much. The tremors were still there, but less violent now. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, and I caught a fuller hit of her apple pie scent, sweet and warm, reminding me of slow Sunday mornings as a child when I helped my mom at the café.
My chest tightened. I wanted to move closer, wanted to wrap her in my arms and surround her with my scent until she felt safe again. But that would be too much, too fast, too invasive of the boundaries she was still figuring out how to establish.
So, I stayed where I was, standing guard, letting my presence be enough for now.
“Ready to go back upstairs?” I asked after a few minutes, when her breathing had returned to something closer to normal.
She nodded, pushed herself up from the chair with visible effort. Her left ankle wobbled slightly, and my hand shot out automatically to steady her. This time, I gripped her elbow, firm but gentle, supporting her weight.
The contact sent heat through my palm, a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the pull I felt toward her. My leather scent intensified, mixing with her sweetness, and I saw her nostrils flare slightly as she registered it.
We moved toward the elevators in silence, my hand still supporting her elbow, her body close enough that I could feel the residual trembling. When the elevator doors opened, I guided her inside and punched the button for the penthouse level.
The elevator started its smooth ascent, and in the enclosed space, her scent was overwhelming. Sweet, warm and Omega, I internally groaned, taking it in.
“Thank you,” she said. “For protecting me.”
I looked down at her, saw the tears that had finally escaped tracking down her cheeks, saw the gratitude and confusion and lingering fear all mixed in her expression.
“Always,” I said, and knew it was a promise I'd keep for as long as she'd let me. “I'll always protect you.”
The words hung between us as the elevator climbed, a vow that felt more significant than the simple statement it appeared to be. And when she leaned slightly into my side, her head barely brushing my shoulder, my heart stuttered with something that felt dangerously close to hope.