Chapter 7

The cold air hit Caroline like a slap in the face. She stood on the sidewalk, shivering, watching as Jarrod Romero walked toward a black SUV parked at the curb. He moved stiffly, his injured arm held tight against his body, but he still moved like a man who owned the world.

He stopped at the car and turned back to look at her. "Get in."

Caroline blinked. "What?"

"Get in the car, Caroline." His voice was calm, but it wasn't a request.

She didn't move. "Why? Where are we going?"

He sighed, a sound of pure frustration. He walked back toward her, stopping just a few inches away. He was so tall she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Up close, she could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the tight lines of pain around his mouth.

"I am not in the mood for games," he said, his voice low. "You just had a scalpel at your throat. You were pushed down a flight of stairs. And now you were assaulted in a public place by a man your mother forced you to date. Am I correct?"

Caroline flinched at the accuracy of his summary. "How do you know about my mother?"

"I know everything I need to know," he said, his gaze piercing. "You are a liability to yourself right now. You are exhausted, you are injured, and you are making poor decisions. So I am making the next one for you. Get in the car."

Caroline's pride bristled. "I don't need a babysitter, Colonel. I'm fine."

"You are not fine," he said, his voice hardening. "You are one bad decision away from getting yourself killed. Or worse, married to that idiot."

The mention of marriage struck a nerve. Caroline's eyes stung. She looked away, blinking rapidly.

"I can't go home," she whispered. "Not like this. My mother will just... she won't understand. She'll say I provoked him. She'll say I ruined it."

Romero was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, though no less commanding. "Then don't go home. Come with me."

Caroline looked up at him, startled. "Where?"

"To somewhere safe. Where you can sleep, and eat, and not have to worry about who is going to attack you next." He held out his hand-his left hand, since his right was in the sling. "Trust me."

Caroline stared at his hand. It was a large hand, calloused and strong. She thought about the last twenty-four hours. The assassin, the fall, the way he had wrapped his body around hers to protect her from the stairs. He had gotten hurt because of her. He had defended her against Cromwell, and against Preston.

He was the only person in her life right now who wasn't trying to control her or use her. He was just trying to keep her safe.

She reached out and took his hand.

His fingers closed around hers, warm and solid. He led her to the SUV, opening the back door for her. She slid inside, the leather seats cool against her skin.

He walked around to the other side and got in, wincing slightly as he settled into the seat. The driver, K.C. Bell, didn't say a word. He just put the car in gear and pulled into traffic.

They drove in silence for a while. Caroline stared out the window, watching the city lights slide past. The car was warm and quiet, and despite everything, she felt her eyelids growing heavy.

"Where are we going?" she asked again, her voice sleepy.

"My place," Romero said.

Caroline's eyes snapped open. "Your place?"

"It's secure," he said, not looking at her. "It has a security system, and my team is nearby. You will be safe there."

"I don't know if that's appropriate," she said, though she didn't move to stop the car.

Romero finally turned his head to look at her. His gray eyes were unreadable in the dim light of the car. "Neither is getting your throat slit. But here we are."

Caroline opened her mouth to argue, but the words wouldn't come. She was too tired. Too broken. She just didn't have the energy to fight him anymore.

"Okay," she whispered.

He nodded and turned back to the window.

The car pulled into the underground garage of a luxury apartment building in the West End. Bell parked in a reserved spot near the elevator and got out to open the door for them.

Romero led Caroline to the elevator, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. It was a protective gesture, guiding her rather than pushing her.

They rode the elevator in silence. The doors opened directly into a penthouse apartment. It was sleek and modern, all glass and steel, with a stunning view of the city skyline. But it was also sparse, almost sterile. There were no personal photos, no clutter. It looked like a place where someone slept, not where someone lived.

"Sit," Romero said, gesturing to the sofa.

Caroline sat down, sinking into the soft leather. He walked into the kitchen, moving one-handed, and came back a minute later with a glass of water and a sandwich on a plate.

"Eat," he said, setting the plate on the coffee table in front of her.

Caroline looked at the sandwich. Turkey and cheese on whole wheat. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She picked it up and took a bite, her stomach growling in response.

Romero sat down in the armchair across from her, watching her eat. He didn't say anything, but his presence was a solid, reassuring weight in the room.

When she was finished, she set the plate aside and took a long drink of water. The food and the warmth were making her even sleepier. She leaned her head back against the cushions, her eyes drifting shut.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For everything."

"You don't need to thank me," he said, his voice rough.

"Why did you do it?" she asked, not opening her eyes. "Why did you jump? You could have been killed."

There was a long pause. She heard him shift in his chair, a soft hiss of pain escaping his lips.

"I told you," he said finally. "I protect what's mine."

Caroline's eyes opened. She looked at him, confused. "I'm not yours, Colonel. I'm just a nurse."

He met her gaze, his eyes intense. "You are under my command. You are under my protection. That makes you mine."

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Caroline felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"I don't understand you," she whispered.

"You're not supposed to," he said. He stood up, wincing again. "The guest room is down the hall, second door on the left. There are clothes in the dresser you can sleep in. The bathroom is fully stocked."

He turned and walked toward the master bedroom, pausing at the door. "Lock the door. And don't leave this apartment without me."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Caroline sat on the couch for a long time, staring at the closed door. Her mind was racing, but her body was shutting down. She finally forced herself to get up and walk down the hall.

The guest room was as impersonal as the rest of the apartment, but the bed was soft and the sheets were clean. She changed into a pair of oversized t-shirt and sweatpants she found in the dresser, washed her face, and crawled under the covers.

She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. She thought about the assassin, about Preston, about her mother. She thought about Jarrod Romero and his cryptic words.

"You are mine."

She didn't know what that meant. But as she finally drifted off to sleep, she couldn't deny the tiny spark of warmth that had ignited in her chest. For the first time in years, she felt safe.