Page 23 of Under His Protection

My eyes dart around. There’s just the empty street and people going to work in the murky morning weather.

Cole steps closer, and I glance up at him. He meets my gaze, his eyes holding mine. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

I swallow, my throat dry. “N-nothing,” I say, biting my lip. “I’m just a little—dizzy.”

I try to tuck my phone away, my fingers trembling. The words on the screen are seared into my memory, the fear a sharp, persistent ache.

“Come on,” he says, his lips curving upward in a reassuring smile. “Let’s get to work. The campaign presentation will take your mind off things. And after that maybe you should take some time off? You know you could use a break. You seem— overwhelmed lately.”

“Yeah?” I say, my skepticism palpable.

“You know my therapist suggested I volunteer,” he says. “I’m at a farm once a week, on Sundays.”

My eyes narrow. “A farm? Really?”

“I’ve done a lot of shit, Ava,” he says, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. “And she’s helped me a lot.”

I tilt my head, considering his words. "Alright," I say, nodding. I'm not sure if I believe him, but the thought of Cole working on a farm on weekends is a calming picture in my mind. A comforting distraction.

But as we walk, a chilling image flashes before my eyes—me, bound, naked, at the mercy of the Raven's twisted desires. It's a scene I can't escape, a horrifying picture painted with the strokes of a nightmare. I clutch my purse tight, a flimsy shield against the fear that claws its way back.

Chapter 10

The Meat and Potatoes

The rain drums a relentless rhythm on the windowpane. Each drop is a miniature explosion of light. I watch the city’s blurry orange glow from my kitchen window, painting a canvas of shadows and rain-slicked streets. The storm may keep everyone inside, safe.

It’s been a long day, but a good one—at least most of it, except the part where the text messages popped up. A quick inhale, a false breath of calm. I know it’s naive to think anything is good at the moment. The Raven is out there, a predator stalking the night. His men, too, I’m guessing, have unseen eyes lurking in the night. Alexander seems to have vanished into thin air, and I’m worried about him.

I glance at Michelle, asleep on the couch. Has she slept all day?

Her body is curled into a tight ball, her breathing shallow and uneven, a delicate bird struggling to stay aloft. I remember her last night, lost, desperate.

My heart aches for her, but I can’t focus only on her pain. I’m still reeling from the truth about Alexander.

Still, I have to protect Michelle. I have to find a way to stop the Raven. Michelle sketches her body and flutters her eyes open. This is my cue.

“I called Alexander,” I say, my voice tight. “He didn’t answer, but Isaac did. He’ll pass on the message that you’re here.”

Michelle stirs. “Sorry ’bout last night,” she rasps. I’m–I’m not doing so well.”

I glance at her. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, her eyes restless, darting around the room. I don’t know that pain, the desperate need, the way it claws at your soul. The phantom of withdrawal is not a familiar enemy, but I bleed with her.

“It’s okay,” I say, “are you hungry?”

She nods and sits up. I stand; my movements are automatic, and I desperately need to do something, anything, to distract myself from my own mind. I head for the kitchen.

Food, I’ll make the food.

My hand reaches for the ingredients I bought earlier, in the minimarket, on my way home from work. Meat and potatoes. Alexander loves meat and potatoes, and a sudden wave of longing washes over me. I remember the last time we ate together, the way his eyes lingered on my face, his touch sending shivers through my body. But it’s all a blur now, a hazy memory.

I have to focus on the present. Michelle. She’s my priority now. This dinner—it’s all I know how to do, all I can do. I don’t have a gun. I can’t fight anyone. Hell, I don’t even know where to go if I could.

“Alexander’s got good taste,” Michelle says, standing at the kitchen door, her voice a gravelly whisper as if reading my thoughts. I don’t know if she’s referring to the food or something else.

I force a laugh, a hollow sound that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Yeah,” I say, “Alexander’s got good taste.”

As I finish cooking, the rain still batters the windows. My tiny apartment is quiet, a small island of calm in the storm. The air hangs thick with the smell of simmering beef and roasted potatoes.

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