12. Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

J asmine

Another day, another full schedule of appointments. As Bold drives us to the office, my mind spins with questions about my attraction to him. I kissed him, then pushed him away, then shared a meal and a night of video games with him. While I was busy shoving him back into the friend zone, my inner teenager was reminding me how awesome our first kiss was, while urging me to do it again.

Bold sniffs the air, his brow furrowing. "You okay, Jazz? Your scent is… different. Agitated."

I startle, a flush creeping up my cheeks. Can he smell my conflicted arousal? Damn his supernatural senses. "I'm fine," I snip, pasting on a smile. "Just thinking about the day ahead."

In the elevator, I glance at my phone, reviewing my appointments for the day. The doors open and Bold's voice cuts through my concentration.

"Looks like you've got a package waiting for you."

I glance up, spotting the innocuous brown box sitting in front of my office door. "I'm not expecting anything. Everything we ordered from Amazon arrived yesterday."

Bold frowns, his posture immediately shifting into high alert. His ears flatten and his muscles go rigid. "Go to the other end of the hall. Don't come an inch closer until I tell you. I'll check it out." His words are tight, clipped.

I watch as he approaches the package cautiously, his tail stiff. He crouches, examining it from all angles but not picking it up.

"There's no return address. Nothing about this feels right." He takes a deep inhale through his nose, nostrils quivering. He's likely trying to catch a scent, then shakes his head with a low growl.

My stomach clenches with unease. After the break-in, I'm on edge. The bad guys know where I work and aren't afraid to break the law. What's next?

As Bold stalks to where I'm standing, he pulls out his phone and punches in a number. "I'm calling the police. Just to be safe."

He puts the call on speakerphone, explains the situation, and reminds them of the break-in two days ago.

The call escalates and the police and bomb squad are dispatched. I can't say the idea that the package might contain a bomb hadn't entered my mind, but having the police acknowledge the level of threat has my heart pounding so violently that my chest is vibrating.

My heartbeat spikes as I drag my gaze to the package. "This is terrifying."

Bold leans close, slings his muscular arm around my shoulders, then almost pulls away as he asks, "Is this okay?"

"Okay? It's a lifesaver." I feel as though I'm in a time travel movie and am ten years old again, needing to be reassured with a giant cuddle.

"I'll keep you safe, Jasmine. Let's see what the police say. It could just be something you don't remember ordering."

He's right, that happens all the time—at home. I know everything I've ordered for my office, and I'm not expecting a package.

Bold escorts me down the stairs for us to wait safely in the car. Even though we're parked halfway up the block, he's tense, a muscle leaping near the hinge of his jaw.

The next hour passes in a blur of activity and anxiety. The bomb squad arrives, and the area is evacuated and cordoned off. My heart lodges in my throat as they work to determine if the package is dangerous.

Finally, the lead technician approaches us—Bold had given her my plate number—a grim expression on her face. She motions us out onto the sidewalk.

"Hi. Ms. Sinclair? Uh… Bold? I'm Officer Ballinger, lead bomb tech. The package isn't a bomb, but… you'll want to see this."

With shaking hands, I take the envelope she's holding out to me. Bold hovers protectively at my shoulder as I read it. I can feel his heat at my back, his presence solid and reassuring even in the midst of my panic. Inside, a single sheet of paper with a typed message in bold 72-point font reads:

Back off. Or next time, we won't just target your office.

The words blur as tears fill my eyes, fear and anger warring for dominance. This is the second threat, the second violation. When will it end?

"This is not a joke," Ballinger says. "I'd advise you to take this seriously. The police department certainly is."

I re-read the note as though the words might become less threatening if I just look at it long enough.

"While we waited in the car, Ms. Sinclair and I reviewed the footage from the cameras I installed yesterday," Bold explains. "Unfortunately, the person who left the parcel was wearing a plain black hoodie and nondescript jeans and sneakers. They kept the hood up and their face down, so we have no idea who the culprits could be."

I read Ballinger's expression. She's certainly taking this more seriously than the officers who responded a few days ago.

"The building's front doors unlock at 0800. The time stamp on the video shows the box was dropped off at 0810. We arrived at 0900. I'll send you a copy of the video."

Ballinger verifies receiving the video from my phone, then looks at me. "There are over forty individual offices in your building with lots of people coming and going. We'll see if any prints we took after the break-in match anyone in AFIS. Until then, I'd like to place you in a department safe house."

Bold bows up as every muscle in his body, already on high alert, coils tighter. His lips pull back in a silent snarl, fangs glinting menacingly. He peppers her with questions about the general location of the safe house, how well it will be guarded, and how long she thinks it will take to track down the culprits.

"All due respect," he rumbles, his voice a low rasp, "but I don't think a safe house is the best option. Too many variables, too many potential leaks."

Ballinger frowns. "Well, what do you suggest, then? Ms. Sinclair is clearly in danger. We need to get her somewhere secure."

"I could just go home," I offer. "We have a guarded gate."

"The Agent is right, Jasmine. You need to be somewhere safe. But your house isn't it. Do you know there are twelve separate points of entry into your neighborhood despite the guard shack? Each house has a backyard that backs up to somewhere. I checked them out from Google Earth. Many don't have adequate fencing."

So many thoughts are swirling in my head it's hard to follow what he's saying. All I can think about is how ridiculous it was to think I was safe just because there's a guard shack on the road leading to my house.

"There's somewhere safer than a safe house, Jasmine. Those can be compromised by one dirty cop." His head swivels to Ballinger as he says, "No offense."

Looking back at me, he continues. "The Integration Zone is a pit, a ghetto, but it's surrounded by barbed wire and defended by the National Guard 24/7. All my wolven brothers will watch out for you."

Perhaps he remembers how I discovered him—the nightly news segment, the stack of thick, muscled orcs risking life and limb to save that human woman—because he adds, "And there are orcs and minotaurs and nagas. We're a close-knit bunch and no one, no one , will get to you in there."

I blink in surprise. "Where would I stay?" I'm not sure why I ask, because I'm fairly certain of the answer.

"My den. It's humble." He chuffs. "Less than humble. It hasn't been updated since it was built in the 50s. But no one is more invested in your safety than me. The Wolven Warriors office is on the first floor of a four-story building. A lot of us have apartments up above. With the National Guard at the gate and barbed wire fence all around, I can't think of a safer place."

He spears me with his serious-as-a-heart-attack look, blue eyes filled with sincerity. I don't doubt his commitment to protect me.

Standing on the sidewalk, my mind slows as I debate what to do. It seems all my thoughts have turned to mush as I try to figure out the best plan of action.

I've watched enough movies about safe houses, which, at least in fiction, usually don't end up being very safe. I've seen news footage of the Zone. Bold's right. It's a pit—a very safe pit surrounded by a tall fence and armed professionals who are trained to protect the inhabitants.

"I wouldn't want to impose…" My voice trails off lamely.

"Jazz, you'd be no imposition at all. I want you to be safe. I'd insist if I didn't know it would thoroughly piss you off." He looks at me intently and, despite the circumstances, I feel a little thrill that he knows me so well.

I look at Officer Ballinger who is intently observing Bold. She looks back to me. "As unorthodox as the suggestion is, I believe he has your best interest at heart. It's ultimately up to you, Ms. Sinclair. Whichever safe house you choose, I'd suggest you go there immediately. I don't recommend you go home for any reason, in case they're watching your house. We'll put a car outside your residence, since you said your father is living there."

"Well, all right then. The Integration Zone it is." I'm sure they can hear the reluctance in my voice.

An hour and a half later, we've picked up some clothes and toiletries in a surgical strike to a big box store, grabbed some burgers that we ate while driving, and we're now entering the reinforced Zone gate, past stern-faced National Guardsmen. The Zone is full of dilapidated buildings that look as though they were built with the cheapest materials decades ago.

Despite their poverty, these people express pride in their surroundings through painted buildings and well-maintained shared spaces. Others of all species walk the streets: blue-scaled nagas; towering, shaggy minotaurs; and fierce-tusked orcs. It feels surreal, as though I've entered a hidden world. A fascinating one.

Bold pulls up to the Wolven Watch building. "This is me," he says almost shyly.

I follow him through the main floor and meet half a dozen wolven guys who are hanging around on couches watching TV. Bold keeps his arm tightly around my waist as he introduces me as Jasmine. His choice to be the only one who calls me Jazz is oddly thrilling.

I've never been so aware of his animalistic DNA as I am right this moment. Short of whipping out his dick and pissing on me to mark me as his property, he's as subtle as a heart attack. His nonverbals practically shout that the other wolven need to give me a wide berth.

Not wanting to start World War III, I simply nod, say hello, and then follow Bold up the steps to his third-floor unit. Inside it's neat but spartan. A tattered plaid sofa, one of those Formica table and chairs sets from the 50s, and a homemade credenza made from reclaimed wood and covered with framed photographs.

I move closer, eager for this glimpse into Bold's personal life. One photo shows him standing with the group of wolven I met downstairs. They're all smiling so broadly, I wonder if this is when they graduated from training. He looks so proud and strong, his fangs fully bared in a fierce grin.

Another picture is clearly a family portrait. An older female wolven—his grandmother?—is surrounded by nine pups of varying ages, all scrambling over each other and mugging for the camera. Bold is right in the thick of it, holding an infant with a look of pure affection. My heart melts at the sight.

"I'll take the couch," Bold offers, setting down the bags with my new clothes near the credenza. "The bed is yours."

"Don't be silly," I say, aiming for a light tone. Glancing at the narrow bed in the corner, barely big enough for one, let alone a hulking wolven and a human, I swallow hard. "We're both adults. I think we can handle sharing for a night or two."

As soon as the words are out, I feel myself blush. Bold looks at me for a long moment, his eyes narrow as though he's assessing the sincerity of my offer, then tilts his head. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," I say softly. And I am. Because despite the less-than-ideal circumstances that brought me here, I'm realizing how safe I feel with Bold. I trust him completely—even in a shared bed.

Maybe the boundaries between us are becoming increasingly blurred, increasingly irrelevant in the face of this connection growing stronger with every passing moment. Perhaps we don't really have to follow the boundaries I've erected. How did I think I could relegate this handsome, sexy male to the friend zone?

As if sensing my thoughts, he takes a step closer, his scent filling my head, pine and musk and rain. The air feels charged. Then a police siren blares in the distance, breaking the tension.

"I better let you get settled," Bold says roughly. "Holler if you need anything."

"I will. And Bold? Thank you. For everything."

He gives me a crooked smile that makes my heart skip. "Anything for you, Jazz. You know that." His voice is a low rumble, full of promise and heat.

As he turns to leave, his tail brushing my leg in a fleeting caress that doesn't seem accidental, I'm suddenly certain that "anything" is exactly what I want from my wolven bodyguard. Professional boundaries be damned.