Page 67 of My Vigilante Valentine

As we approached Wilde Brew, I instinctively angled toward my building, but Jax tugged me in the opposite direction.

“Not there,” he snapped, guiding me across the street. “If he’s watching, I don’t want him knowing where you live.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me.”

I snorted.

Yep, I actually managed to snort in my current state, becausetrust him?

How could I not?

“Wait...” I panted as we reached the steps leading to the building’s entrance. “Shouldn’t we get you help? Or do you know someone who lives here who can?—”

“I live here.”

I shook my head. “You live here? Across from me? This whole time?”

He didn’t answer, too focused on getting us into the elevator.

He mashed the button for his floor the second we stepped in, and when he’d leaned over to do it? He’d given me a clearer view of his side. His suit was all black—jacket, shirt, pants—but under the harsh elevator lights, the blood shone wet and thick against the fabric.

I held back a gasp, and the elevator ride was tense after that, filled only with the sound of our breathing and the ding of passing floors.

Jax kept his hand pressed to his side, but his other arm was a bar across my front. An unwavering shield, like he still wasn’t convinced we were safe.

We reached his floor, and he poked his head out first, still blocking me with his arm until he determined it was clear.

And then, we walked down the hallway in silence. Jax, scanning for any signs of danger, and me, trying to keep up with his impossibly long strides.

When we finally made it to his apartment and he ushered me inside, I wasn’t at all surprised by what I found. Which was comforting, to say the least.

The industrial-designed space was exactly what I’d expect from him—minimalist to the extreme.

No clutter, no unnecessary decorations.

Just clean lines and functional furniture in neutral colors, with exposed beams and metal, strong and stoic in design. Just like him.

The complete opposite of my cozy chaos across the street.

How apropos.

But as stark as it was, there were also little touches that caught my eye. Made me wonder.

A well-worn paperback on the coffee table, its pages dog-eared and spine creased from countless reading.

Was it from the walls of my shop?

There was a collection of throwing knives displayed on the wall like art, each one sparkling like new, ready for use in the name of vigilante justice.

Did he sit around polishing them like other people polished expensive silver?

But it was the high-end coffee maker—one that probably cost more than my entire setup at Wilde Brew—that sent my eyebrows flying sky-high.

“Um, what isthat?”

He shrugged from the center of the room, where he’d been watching me take in his space. “A coffee machine.”

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