Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Security arrived because it was their job. They watched the feeds and responded immediately to any incidences that drew concern. Jack arrived because he couldn’t stay away.
“The footage will need to be reviewed,” Cole continued, matching Jack’s relentless pace. “Welles violated at least four protocols. And there’s also the matter of the weapon—”
Fury burned through Jack’s veins. That slimy fuck knew the rules and he violated them anyway. “You leave Hadrian Welles to me.”
“Sir, if I may—”
“You may not.”
They emerged from the gardens onto the manicured lawn that sloped toward the lodge. The building rose against the storm-dark sky, windows blazing gold, Gothic towers stabbing into the clouds like accusations.
Jack’s teeth chattered. Cold had seeped through his shirt, his waistcoat, settling into his muscles. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead and dripped from his jaw. His fingers were chilled to a ghostly white, numb to the bone. But he didn’t slow.
“Sir.” Cole tried once more, his voice careful. “Her feet are bleeding. Whatever happened out there—”
“That will be all.”
The dismissal hung in the rain-thick air as Cole stopped walking. Jack continued toward the lodge, her weight shifting against his chest with each stride.
Avoiding the revelry spilling from the ballroom, he carried her through the service entrance, up the back staircase where shadows pooled thick, and servants knew not to linger. His wet leather soles squeaked against the marble, leaving dark prints in his wake.
By the time he reached his suite, violent shivers wracked his body. His soaked clothes clung to his abdomen, outlining every carved ridge. Water streamed from his sleeves, from his hair, pooling on the hardwood floor as he shouldered through the door.
The fire had burned low in his absence. Dying embers cast the room in amber shadows.
Jack crossed to the bed and lowered her onto the dark sheets, his arms trembling as he released her weight. She didn’t stir. Her head turned on the pillow, blonde hair fanning out in a tangled halo of pins and leaves and dried blood.
He stood over her, chest heaving, rain dripping from his jaw onto the dark bedding, waiting for her to move. She may need a doctor, but Jack wasn’t ready to hand her over. The most important thing was seeing to her comfort.
He moved to the fireplace and crouched before the hearth, his frozen fingers fumbling with the iron poker. He stoked the dying flames until sparks scattered. Heat bloomed. He stayed there a moment longer than necessary, letting the warmth thaw his hands enough to function.
When he rose, his shirt clung to his back like a sheet of ice. Cold burrowed into his bones, turning his breath to fog. His body screamed for those creature comforts he craved daily. A hot bath. Dry clothes. The burn of bourbon in his throat.
Not a single one a necessity. Right now, she was his greatest concern. He returned to the bed, but she hadn’t stirred.
“Sir?”
Jack turned from the bed.
Nick Carrow stood in the doorway, his thin frame silhouetted against the hallway light. Rain-spotted glasses perched on his nose. A leather satchel hung from his shoulder, heavy with whatever he’d deemed necessary to bring.
His gaze moved from Jack to the woman on the bed.
Silence stretched taut.
“Close the door.”
Nick obeyed, stepping inside and pulling it shut with a soft click.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask the obvious questions. He simply waited, the way he’d waited through decades of Jack’s silences.
In the growing firelight, she looked worse than he’d realized. Blood had dried in a dark rivulet from her temple to her jaw. A bruise bloomed purple across her cheekbone, the skin already swelling. Her arms and legs bore a map of scratches and scrapes, some still oozing, others crusted over with dried blood.
Her feet needed attention. “First aid—”
“There’s a kit in the bathroom.” Nick was already moving.
Jack looked away from her feet, back to her porcelain face.
Fingers twitching, he studied her in stillness. Why had she turned back? She was so close to getting away. Why?
His hand moved slowly, hovering inches from her cheek. Then settled against her chilled skin, his thumb tracing the edge of the bruise with a gentleness that surprised even him. Her skin burned cold beneath his touch. Glass-like. Fragile as frost.
“Sir.” Nick’s voice came softly. Cautious. “The first aid.”
He didn’t move. Couldn’t look away.
“Shall I call for the medic?”
“No.”
“Her injuries require attention. The head wound alone—”
“I said no.”
Nick fell silent. Jack sensed him watching, sensed the weight of his concern pressing against the space between them.
“Leave us.”
A pause. Then he set the first aid on the nightstand. “Sir, this is unlike you.”
“I’m aware.”
Nick’s concern pushed into him like a surging wave. “The protocols exist for a reason. The tributes are—”
“I know what they are.”
“Do you?” Nick’s voice sharpened, the formal veneer cracking. “Because from where I stand, this looks less like charity and more like—”