Page 10 of Deadly Hope
“Trauma-informed design.” Her voice stayed steady, clinical, but he caught the slight tremor in her hands. “Patients need to feel safe to heal.”
“And now?” He kept his tone gentle, knowing the weight of that question.
She paused over an ornate wooden box, vulnerability flickering across her face. “Now I’m wondering if I made it too accessible. Too many entry points, too exposed?—”
“Hey.” He crossed to her desk, careful to telegraph his movements. The last thing she needed was another threat, even perceived. “Don’t do that. Building a bunker won’t help your patients.” God knew he understood the impulse though. After Tank’s death, he’d fortified everything—his home, the hangar, his heart.
“Speaking from experience?”
Her direct hit surprised a smile out of him. Most civilians tiptoed around his obvious hypervigilance. “What, you mean my tactical assessment of your throw pillow placement didn’t seem totally normal?”
Her laugh caught him off guard—bright, genuine, transforming her face. Something in his chest tightened. “Well, most of my patients don’t calculate blast radius relative to the couch.”
“Their loss. Good cover, that couch.” He bent to retrieve a fallen photo, using the moment to steady himself. This woman was supposed to be his therapist, dammit. Instead, he’d found himself admiring her technique as she dropped an armed intruder. “Though your book selection could use some updating. That DSM is at least two editions old.”
“You know DSM editions?” The raised eyebrow was both professional assessment and personal challenge.
“Did my homework before coming.” Before chickening out of therapy, he didn’t add. “Know your terrain, right?”
Her office told a story—degrees on the wall speaking to competence, but the small touches—the throw pillows, the carefully positioned chairs—those spoke to compassion. Tounderstanding. Both qualities he’d seen in action during the attack.
“I gotta say, your technique with that shoulder lock was impressive.” He hadn’t expected that from a therapist, though he should have. Everything about her defied easy categorization.
“A big brother. Plus a very motivated self-defense instructor after ... after James.”
His eyes found the photo—her with a man who had to be her brother, both grinning in climbing gear. The same warm smile she’d shown earlier, before violence invaded her sanctuary. He found himself wanting to restore that sense of safety, not just as a security professional, but as a man who recognized something kindred in her strength and vulnerability.
None of which he had any business feeling. She was meant to be his therapist. Now she was a potential client. Both roles demanded professional distance.
But watching her rebuild her composure, seeing how she prioritized her patients’ wellbeing even now—he couldn’t help admiring her resilience. Her heart.
Tank would have liked her, he realized suddenly. Would have recognized her warrior spirit beneath the healer’s touch.
Those thoughts were dangerous territory. Better to focus on security assessments and tactical plans. Those, at least, he understood.
“Noticed you didn’t freeze,” he observed, still processing how smoothly she’d moved during the attack. Her reaction time, her focus—not typical civilian responses. “Most civilians would have.”
“Most civilians haven’t spent years dealing with people in crisis. Or had a Special Forces brother who insisted on worst-case scenario training.”
The casual mention of her brother’s Special Forcesbackground clicked several pieces into place. Her composure, her situational awareness, the way she’d anticipated her attacker’s moves. But there was more to it—an innate strength that had nothing to do with training.
“You know,” he admitted, surprising himself, “when I came here today, I was going to tell you I didn’t need therapy.”
“And now?”
He chose his words carefully, aware of how much weight they carried. “Now I’m thinking there are different kinds of help. Different ways of seeing things clearly.” The admission cost him, but something about her made honesty feel less dangerous.
“Seems we’re both reassessing some things.”
Their eyes met, and Axel felt the air charge with unspoken possibilities. Professional lines blurred dangerously. He needed to focus on the tactical situation, not the way her presence affected him.
“Let Knight Tactical help.” He maintained his distance, recognizing her need for space. “We have resources, experience with this kind of situation. And unlike the police, we understand the unique considerations involved.”
She paused over a patient file, protective even now. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we respect professional confidentiality. Whatever investigations we do, whatever security measures we implement—it all happens on your terms.” He met her gaze directly, letting her see his sincerity. “Your patients’ privacy stays protected. Non-negotiable.”
“You seem very certain about that.”
