Page 22 of Jenna's Protector

“Good. Now, what about his eyes? Their shape, size, placement?”

I swallow hard, remembering how those eyes had locked onto me, making me feel seen for the first time in my life.

“Almond-shaped. Dark, almost black. They were—intense. Set deep under strong brows.”

The mall around me had seemed to fade away, leaving only those piercing eyes.

“His nose?” Joe prompts gently.

“Straight. Aristocratic.” My voice wavers. “It suited his high cheekbones.”

Joe nods, his hand moving swiftly across the page. “Hair?”

“Dark and slicked back but with a natural wave,” I remember how a single lock had fallen across his forehead as he’d smiled at me, promising a world of glamour and success.

“Any distinctive features? Scars, moles, anything unusual?”

I shake my head, my hair brushing against my cheeks. “No, he was—perfect. Almost too perfect, like a statue.” The memory of his flawless face makes my skin crawl. “Well-oiled comes to mind.”

“Well-oiled?” Joe’s pencil pauses.

“Everything about him was smooth, polished. From his manicured nails to his tailored suit. He looked expensive, untouchable.”

As Joe continues to sketch, the face on the paper becomes more and more real. It’s like watching a ghost materialize before my eyes.

Max senses my distress and presses his head against my leg. I reach down to stroke his fur, grateful for the distraction.

“What about his expression?” Joe asks. “Was he smiling, serious?”

The memory hits me like a punch to the gut. His smile was charming and predatory all at once.

“He was smiling. But it didn’t reach his eyes. They remained cold, calculating.”

“What about his eyebrows? Were they thick, thin, arched?” Joe continues sketching, asking occasional questions about the man’s features.

“Thick and slightly arched,” I respond, my voice steadier now. “He had a very commanding presence.”

“And his lips?” Joe asks, his pencil pausing.

“Thin, almost cruel looking.” The memory becomes clearer with each detail.

Joe adds the final touches to the sketch.

“Is this him?” He turns the pad around, and the blood drains from my face.

Lucian Drake stares back at me from the paper, just as handsome and terrifying as the day he approached me in that mall, promising me the world and delivering me into hell.

“That’s him,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “That’s Lucian Drake.”

Carter leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. The warmth of his presence anchors me to the present, reminding me that I’m safe now.

But as I stare at Lucian’s face, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still hunting for his next victim somewhere out there.

Suddenly, I’m seventeen again, standing before an imposing structure that looks more like a fortress than a modeling school. The summer heat beats down on me, but a chill runs through my body.

“Welcome to your new home,” Lucian says, his smooth voice cutting through the hum of cicadas.

My heart pounds with excitement and apprehension all rolled into one. The facility looms before us, its high walls topped with glinting barbed wire. The knot in my stomach tightens.

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