Page 91 of Blind Justice

A sharp cryshattered the silence of the house.

Noah jerked awake, disoriented for a moment before his eyes focused. He ran for Ruth’s room.

Paul was leaning over her. “Ruth, wake up.”

Ruth was thrashing, her face twisted in fear. “No!” she cried, her voice breaking. “No, no, no!”

“Rae!” Noah was at her side in an instant, his hands gently gripping her shoulders as Paul stepped aside. “Rae, it’s me. It’s Noah. You’re safe.”

Her eyes flew open, wide and unfocused, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She blinked rapidly, her head turning as if trying to make sense of her surroundings. “It’s dark,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can’t… I can’t see. Where—where am I?”

“You’re in your room in the safe house.” Noah’s voice was steady and calm. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands still on her shoulders to ground her. “You’re safe, Rae. I’ve got you.”

She clung to his voice, her hands reaching out until they found his arms. Her fingers gripped him tightly, her breaths uneven. “The explosion… it—it was so loud. I felt it. I couldn’t move.”

“It was just a dream.” Noah’s heart broke at the fear in her voice. “It’s over, Rae. You’re here now. You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Her grip on him tightened as she shook her head. “It felt so real. I could smell the smoke, feel the heat. I—I thought I was dying.”

Noah slid closer, his arms wrapping around her trembling form. “You’re alive,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You survived. And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking into his shirt. “Don’t leave me,” she begged, her voice muffled. “Please, Noah. Don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice breaking. “I’m not letting go.”

He held her as she cried, his hands stroking her back in slow, soothing circles. Her sobs gradually quieted, replaced by soft, shaky breaths. She clung to him like a lifeline, her fingers digging into his arms as if afraid he’d disappear.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely.

Noah pulled back just enough to look at her, though her eyes remained unfocused. “For what?”

“For falling apart,” she said, her lips trembling. “For being weak.”

“You’re not weak,” Noah said firmly. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. You survived something most people couldn’t, Rae. And you’re still here, still fighting. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”

Her chin quivered as another tear slipped down her cheek. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Maybe not now,” he admitted. “But it will. And until it does, I’ll remind you as many times as you need to hear it.”

She rested her head against his chest again, her body slowly relaxing in his arms. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For being here. For not giving up on me.”

Noah pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Never. You don’t have to do this alone, Rae. I’ve got you.”

As her breathing evened out and sleep began to reclaim her, Noah stayed where he was, holding her close. His own fears threatened to overwhelm him, but he pushed them aside. Ruth needed him, and he would be there for her—no matter what it took.

* * *

Daylight spilledthrough the frost-covered windows of Maxim Fairchild’s study. The blizzard had passed, leaving behind a frozen world that mirrored his cold determination. He stood by the fireplace, sipping a steaming cup of coffee, his mind churning with plans. The cleanup from the storm had delayed his operations, but it wouldn’t hold him back for long.

He had guns to move, payments to process, and his new state landscaping contract to leverage. The money flowing in from that deal would elevate his empire to unprecedented heights. He chuckled, the sound low and menacing, as he imagined the state’s Department of Public Works unwittingly funding his empire.

But one problem remained: the bombing that injured Ruth Everhart and Noah Kandor. It was sloppy, reckless, and brought unwanted attention to his carefully orchestrated plans.

Fairchild growled under his breath. If the state’s attorney handed Noah’s investigation to his partner, things could spiral further out of control. He needed answers, and he needed them now.

He grabbed his phone and dialed Dylan Grant. His phone was dead—not even voicemail. He bit back his temper. He dialed the switchboard at Ellison & Grant. “May I speak with Dylan Grant please?”

“Sir, are you a client?” the receptionist asked.

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