27. Wolfe
WOLFE
The feed glitched.
Just for a second.
A flicker. A shadow. Barely a movement on the second angle—hallway cam, Cloe’s floor.
But I saw it.
A shape. Close to her door. Closer than anyone had a right to be.
The elevator button blinked once. Then went dark. Out of service.
“What the fuck—” I slammed the call button.
No response. No hum. No flicker.
Just silence.
I didn’t wait.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t breathe.
I hit the stairwell door with my shoulder and launched upward—two steps, three at a time. My hand scraped along the metal railing as I climbed, faster than my body could keep up with .
My lungs burned. But it wasn’t the stairs. It was her . Something was wrong.
That feeling … the one I’d learned to trust in war zones and interrogation rooms. The one that whispered too quiet , too still, too late.
Each floor I passed dragged a blade through my chest.
Second.
Third.
Fourth.
Run .
Fifth.
Faster.
Sixth .
My heart was already a war drum. The kind that only beats when something you love is about to be stolen.
Seventh.
Her floor.
I hit the landing hard—feet barely catching grip on the tile. My eyes snapped to her door. Still closed. But the frame? Splintered. Fresh wood. Shards near the lock. Someone had forced it. My blood turned to ice. Then fire.
MOVE .
I punched the access code into the panel.
Wrong keypress.
“Fuck!”
My hand shook.
Blood smeared across the touchscreen as I tried again.
Green light.
The door clicked. I didn’t open it gently. I kicked it open with enough force to snap the lock. The impact echoed through the hall behind me—but I didn’t hear it.
I was already inside. Already in the dark. Already seeing everything .
Silence.
Thick.
Wrong.
Like the air had collapsed.
Glass glittered across the hardwood. A vase smashed. A chair flipped on its side like someone had tried to run—or been thrown.
But it wasn’t the mess that stopped me.
It was her.
Cloe .
On the floor.
Half-curled. Barely moving. Her body tucked tight like she was trying to fold into herself and disappear.
Her arms were around her head. Her legs drawn in. Too still. Too quiet. My heart fucking stopped. No sound. No breath. No sign of life.
Just her, crumpled like a doll someone had thrown down too hard.
“Cloe.”
My voice broke around her name. Cracked open like it didn’t belong to me.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t lift her head.
Oh fuck— no .
No no no.
I dropped. Knees slammed into the floor. Glass cut through the fabric of my pants. I didn’t feel it. Didn’t care. I crawled to her. Reached out.
“Cloe,” I said again, quieter this time. My voice shook.
She still didn’t look up. Her whole body was trembling. Not from cold. From fear. The kind you don’t come back from. I touched her arm. Light. Careful. Like she might shatter if I moved too fast.
She flinched.
Hard.
Pulled away.
Like I was him.
Like she couldn’t tell the difference.
I froze.
Fuck. Fuck.
I’d seen this before. On the battlefield. In black sites. In places where screams were currency.
But never like this.
Never her.
She smelled like blood and sweat and something worse— fear . The kind that seeps into your bones and stays there.
“Cloe,” I whispered. It’s“ me.”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t lift her head. Didn’t speak. But she started to cry. No sobs. No sound. Just tears. Streaming down her bruised face like they’d been waiting for someone safe enough to fall for.
Then—finally—she looked up. And I broke. Her lip was bleeding. Her eye already swelling. There were scratches on her collarbone. The side of her blouse was torn.
“Wolfe?”
Her voice cracked. So did something inside me.
“Yeah.” I moved closer. “It’s me. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
She winced. Her arm shifted. She tried to sit up but gasped— ribs .
I caught her before she could fall forward. Held her. Her breath was short and uneven, her hands clutching the chain still around her neck like it was the only thing tethering her to this world.
“What happened?” I asked, barely managing to keep my voice steady .
She shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He was there and then—gone. I think I… I passed out.”
A lie .
I knew it.
But I didn’t press. She was shaking too hard.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
I slid one arm under her knees. The other around her back. Lifted her carefully—like she was made of glass. Like every breath might be the last one she trusted me with. She gasped again. A small cry escaped before she could bite it down. Her fingers clutched my jacket.
“Where are we going?”
I didn’t look at her.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t hesitate.
“The fuck out of here.”
She weighed nothing. Or maybe I didn’t feel the weight.
All I could feel was the sound of her breath against my chest—ragged, shallow, broken. Her arms around my neck were barely there. Her grip too weak. Too tentative. Like she wasn’t sure if I was real.
Like she didn’t know if this was over. It wasn’t. Not for me. Not until someone bled.
I carried her through the hallway. Past the broken door. Down the stairs, fast but careful, her body curled into mine like it was the only safe place left.
I didn’t speak. Didn’t look back. Didn’t let myself feel anything but the anchor of her heartbeat, faint as it was, against my ribs.
The Audi waited at the curb, door still open. Engine humming. Headlights slicing the dark.
I slid her inside, lowered the seat, adjusted her carefully against the leather. Buckled her in. Her lashes fluttered. She looked at me like she didn’t recognize this version of me. Neither did I.
I shut the door and rounded the front. Once inside, I shifted the car into gear. No music. No words. Just the sound of the city falling away behind us.
When I reached the garage beneath my apartment, I didn’t wait for the gate to finish rising. I nosed the car through with an inch to spare, braked hard enough to jolt her seat.
She whimpered.
I cursed under my breath. “I’m sorry.”
But sorry didn’t mean anything right now. Not when I’d let this happen. Not when I should’ve stopped it before it began.
I helped her out, carried her again—she didn’t resist. Not once. Didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just pressed her face to my neck like maybe, just maybe, I could keep her safe this time.
Inside, I laid her gently on the bed. Pulled a blanket over her. Turned out the lights. Then I left. Walked straight into the kitchen. Pulled my phone from my pocket. Blood still streaked the knuckles from when I punched the access panel. I unlocked the screen. No hesitation.
To: Mason Quinn
Surveillance. Extraction. Recon.
Someone got into her apartment last night. He touched her. Find him.
I didn’t move. Just stared at the screen.
… three dots.
Typing.
Then—
Understood .
I typed again.
Don’t touch him. Not until I get there.
It cost me to send that. Cost me every ounce of control I had left. I wanted to destroy him. Now. Tonight. But I needed intel first. I stared at the floor for a long moment. Then picked up the phone again.
To: Royal
“Come to the penthouse. Now.”
He picked up on the third ring.
“Tell me you didn’t do something stupid.”
“I need you to stay with her.”
A pause.
“You’re not asking Barron?”
“No.”
“Good. He’d never let you live it down.”
“I know.”
“Alright. I’m on my way. Don’t burn the city down before I get there.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He heard it in my silence. In the crackling fury barely held beneath my voice. The room was dark. Royal had arrived—quiet, sharp-eyed, a bottle of wine in one hand and a gun in the other.
He said nothing when I let him in. Didn’t comment on the bruise on her cheek or the chain still tangled in her collarbone. He just looked at me. Then nodded once. And took a seat beside the bed like a man ready to kill anyone who got too close.
I left them there. Walked into my office. Closed the door. Turned on the feed. The screen flared to life. Playback. Angle two. Her hallway.
I fast-forwarded. Reversed. Watched the frame-by-frame shift in light.
There.
A figure.
Dark. Hooded. Masked.
Moving past the elevator. Toward her door .
He shouldn’t have been there. She shouldn’t have been home. But she was. And he knew it. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t knock. He just entered.
And then?—
Her .
Frozen on the screen. Caught mid-step. The moment before fear takes over. Before instinct replaces thought. She turned. Said something. No sound.
The man lunged.
I saw her fall. Felt it like a gunshot to the chest. Her body hit the floor. Arms up. Knees in. Trying to protect herself with the same hands that had once held me like I was safe.
I stopped the feed. Just stared at that frame. Her body, curled and still.
My fault. Every inch of it. Every bruise. Every breath she didn’t take right after.
I stood so fast my chair slammed backward into the wall. I didn’t notice. Didn’t care. I grabbed my coat. My keys.
The rage came quiet this time. Not a scream. Not a roar. But a calm, brutal hum.
I got in the Audi. Turned the engine over once. Then slammed the gas. The tires shrieked across the concrete. I didn’t slow. Didn’t check the mirrors. Didn’t blink. Every second she was hurt pulsed like a countdown in my chest.
I ran the first red light. Didn’t care. A car honked—sharp and useless.
I swerved around it, tires burning rubber. The scent of smoke filled the cabin. Another light.
I didn’t stop.
Didn’t see the truck until too late—metal scraped along the side of the Audi.
A scream of steel.
A mirror ripped off.
Didn’t stop. Didn’t fucking stop. Because in my head, she was still on that floor. Still bleeding. Still whispering my name like it might save her.
I hit the next corner too fast.The tires lost grip. The car spun once, clipped a barricade, jolted hard enough to make the airbag alert scream.
I didn’t let it deploy. Didn’t let anything stop me. I needed blood. I needed a name. I needed a body at my feet and the world to know:
You don’t touch what’s mine and breathe afterward.
I skidded to a stop outside Mason’s facility. The Audi door flung open. My boots hit pavement.
Fast.
Hard.
Every muscle in my body screaming?—
Not with pain. But with purpose.