8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

J asmine

The next morning, Bold and I set out for my small office in the city, ready to tackle the day's appointments. As he drives, I find myself sneaking glances at his strong profile, admiring the way his new green polo stretches across his broad shoulders. There's something about having him by my side that makes me feel secure, protected.

The moment we step out of the elevator to get to my third-floor office, my stomach clenches. As I leave the elevator, I can't shake the feeling that something feels off. With trembling hands, I fumble for my keys, the jingling sound loud in the heavy silence.

And then I see it—the door is slightly ajar, the handle canted crookedly. Adrenaline surges through me and I stumble back a step, my keys clattering to the floor.

"Jasmine, wait in the car." Bold's voice is low and urgent, his body already moving to shield me, one muscular arm thrown out in front of my chest as he edges toward the door.

But I can't just leave the building and wait in the car. This is my office, my refuge, my place to help others put their lives back together. With legs that feel like jelly, I force myself to follow him, my breath coming in shallow pants.

He shoots me a look, equal parts frustrated and concerned, but doesn't waste time quarreling.

"We'll argue about your inability to follow my instructions later," he bites out. "If I tell you to run, you run. No elevator. Take the stairs. Understand?"

I nod mutely, my tongue thick and heavy in my dry mouth. Inch by painstaking inch, Bold pushes the door open, the hinges creaking ominously. The sight that greets us steals my breath.

It's chaos. Magazines blanket the waiting room floor like a patchwork quilt. When we reach my inner office, drawers are flung haphazardly, their contents spilled. The beautiful antique lamp I bought at a flea market is shattered, shards of glass litter the floor. Thank goodness the client files are still in their double-locked cabinet. Bile rises in my throat and I press a fist to my mouth as if to force it back.

"Oh God," I choke out, the words mangled and fear-clogged.

Bold sweeps an assessing gaze over the destruction before turning to me, his expression grim. "I need to secure every inch of this space. You stay here."

It's not a request, and I don't have it in me to argue. I hug my arms tightly around my middle, staring, shell-shocked. As Bold moves through the room, I just stare.

Why would someone do this? The question rings in my mind, even as my internal voice whispers that I know exactly why. The proposed inquiry, my passionate speech. The enemies I've made due to my earnest desire to help people.

Sudden tears blur the scene into smears of gray and I angrily dash them away. I can't fall apart right now. My clients need me. They're already battling so much. I refuse to let this impact their progress and healing.

Bold reappears, his strong hands coming to rest on my shoulders, his eyes searching mine with quiet intensity. "All clear." A muscle tics in his clenched jaw. "Has this ever happened before?"

I mutely shake my head, not trusting my voice. It's too much. The violation, the fear, the sickening realization that this might only be the beginning. A choked sob escapes me, and Bold makes a low, distressed growl as he pulls me into his arms.

Burrowing against his chest, I savor his warmth, his strength, the steady thump of his heart.

"I'm here, Jasmine. I've got you," he murmurs, his chin resting atop my head. "It's a good thing you hired a bodyguard. You relented none too soon. We'll figure this out together. I promise."

His words wash over me, a blanket of calm. I feel safe. Protected. Slowly, my hitching breaths even out. Bold makes no move to let me go and I'm in no hurry to step away, drawing what courage and comfort I can from his embrace.

A timid knock at the door shatters the moment as we guiltily bolt apart. My first client of the day, Finn, stands at the threshold, his lanky form shrinking as he takes in the destruction and my red-rimmed eyes. Then he scans Bold from the tips of his ears to his booted feet. His eyes are wide with wonder and, much to my relief, no fear. He snaps his eyes back to me.

"Whoa. Seems like bad timing. We should reschedule—"

"No." My voice rings out, stronger than I expected. After disentangling from Bold's arms I say, "You being here, that's what matters. I'm not going to let this disrupt the work we're doing."

Bold hovers protectively nearby as I tell Finn my cover story, taking pains to pin this on a disturbed former client, reassuring him that I'm taking steps to keep things safe.

"That's why Bold is here. He's going to beef up my security."

"Cool. You're a wolven. I saw you on TV on top of those orcs rescuing that woman."

Bold gives him a nod as Finn gazes at him with open curiosity and acceptance.

Pushing my emotions aside, I focus on Finn, who was sent to Nature's Edge at age fifteen after his parents found a single blunt in his backpack. Poor guy was at the company's mercy until he demanded to leave on his eighteenth birthday. He and I have a lot to unpack.

I lead him to my inner office and ask, "Can we just ignore the mess in here? We'd discussed doing trauma work today, Finn. Want to set that aside and do something a bit less difficult? How about we review coping skills today?"

I catch Bold's eye over Finn's shoulder. He gives me a small, proud smile, his pale gaze warm and reassuring.

"I'll be in the waiting room if you need me." He pulls my inner office door closed behind him.

Bolstered, I take a deep breath and refocus on Finn, determined not to let him become a casualty of the tempest that has become my life.

Still, the questions churn in my mind, a tangle of anxiety and anger. I manage to push the whirling thoughts to the back of my mind and focus on Finn, who reports several successes this week at trying to make friends in the workplace.

The remainder of the session is spent reviewing skills. I give lots of praise as he calms his nerves in real-time. When Finn leaves, I crumple in my chair, face in my hands. Bold reappears, closes the door behind him, and crouches in front of me, his hand warm on my knee.

"Talk to me," he coaxes softly.

"This is my fault," I rasp miserably, lowering my hands to meet his steady gaze. "Dad warned me and I didn't listen. What if… what if I've put my clients in danger? Even though he tried to look cool in front of you, the chaos and threat upset Finn. And what about you? God, Bold, if something happened to you because of me…"

"Hey, none of that." He catches my restless hands, engulfing them in his larger ones. "This is not your fault. The assholes who did this? It's on them. Not you. And let me remind you," his voice rasps with sincerity, "I'm here to protect you, not the other way around."

I shake my head. "But the legislative inquiry… My father is my biggest supporter, but he tried to warn me this wasn't going to be well received. Why did I think there wouldn't be retaliation?"

Bold growls fiercely. "What you're doing, fighting for the men and women who still bear the scars of their time in those hellholes, the kids who are still there, powerless? It's brave as hell. You can't let these bastards derail that." He squeezes my hands. "And I'm not going anywhere. We're a team now."

"A team," I echo, mustering a smile. "I like the sound of that."

"Good." Bold straightens, pulling me to my feet and into a quick hug. I lean into him for a moment, savoring the comfort of his solid presence. "Because you're stuck with me now. We'll figure this out. You and me."

I take a deep breath, step back, and square my shoulders. "Okay. Let's deal with this."

Bold grins, looking proud of my resilience. "I'm on it. We're going to call the police and after that, why don't we head back to your place to regroup? We can make a plan of action after dinner."

My stomach rumbles at the mention of food and I laugh. "Oh, you're speaking my language now. DoorDash and strategizing sound perfect."

I take another look around at the devastation in the waiting room.

"First step, calling the cops to report the break-in." I try to focus on the practical. "I'm going to cancel my clients for the rest of the day. I don't think I can do them justice with my heart still jackrabbiting in my chest."

Bold pulls out his phone. "On it. I'll call the police while you call your clients. I decided against cleaning up while you were in session. Didn't want to disturb any evidence."

I manage a small smile, warmed by his take-charge attitude. "Good idea."

The police take their sweet time arriving, take perfunctory prints at the door and on my file cabinet—only because I insisted—and are gone in a matter of minutes.

"I can't help but feel as though this isn't going to rise to the top of their priority list." My voice is rueful as the elevator doors close behind them.

Bold says nothing, but because of his history, I doubt he's a big fan of law enforcement—other than Wolven Warriors.

Side by side, we straighten furniture, sweep broken glass, and sort through scattered papers. The task is almost meditative, helping to settle my rattled nerves.

Normally, I love my cozy office, enjoying reading in my overstuffed therapist chair when I have a free hour. Today I can't wait to get out of here. What have I gotten myself into? Will I ever feel safe?