Page 4 of Fated Protector

“You do it,” I blurt out, and I hate the simpering, frightened voice that emerges from me. How is it that I’ve gone from business world goddess to someone scared of a simple key in just twenty-four hours?

“I can’t,” he says, his full lips dipping downward. He almost sounds apologetic, which is ridiculous coming from a man who tried to rob me of the same key earlier. “It has to be you.”

I nod and square my shoulders. When I touch the key to the doorknob, the metal stretches, enveloping the bigger key like a glove. I inhale sharply as the knob molds itself around it, forming a brand new keyhole. Even the doorknob is changed, silver filigree lacing around the plate like newly bloomed flowers.

“I d-don’t understand,” I stammer. “Why did it do that?”

He gives me an odd look. “Because it was supposed to.”

I glare at him and try to compose myself. I push on the door, and it glides open for me, but as I’m about to step in, the man throws out an arm to block me.

“I’ll go in first,” he says quickly.

I sigh, not ready to deal with male overprotectiveness.“Look, sir–”

He laughs, but it is an utterly mirthless chuckle. “Ain’t no sir here,cher. Just Jack.”

“Just Jack,” I repeat. Saying his name aloud feels like more than an introduction. It’s a promise. “And I’m –”

“Annabelle. I know.”

“You know?”

“I’ve spent enough time with Sasha to have heard about you ten times over. Can’t stop that old girl when she’s on her favorite topic. That’s you if you’re wondering.”

“I hardly think she’ll like it if you call her old girl.” Another frisson of panic shoots through me, centering around my heart. I need to find Sasha. For the sake of time, I allow Jack to go ahead of me, and he steps inside. His flirtatious smiles are gone, and he ducks his head around, searching for God-knows-what. An intruder? A burglar? Isn’thetechnically the burglar? When he lets out a satisfied exhale, he steps aside and allows me through the door like a disgruntled butler.

Inside, the bookstore looks as it always has, but there’s a stale dampening in the air as if the world has been muffled between these four walls. It makes me feel almost claustrophobic, and I find myself breathing even more deeply to compensate.

Sasha is nowhere to be found. I look behind the wooden counter, near the old fireplace she has never lit in all the time I’ve known her, and by the rolling bookshelf of clearance books. Of course, I would know if she were there, but it feels better to look. Anything is better than the waiting I’ve had to do for the past twenty-four hours.

The stairs creak as I go upstairs, half expecting to find Sasha puttering around in the apartment kitchen, working on a seasonal gumbo, or cooking up some of my favorite guilty pleasures, snowballs. Instead, the room is silent, the spicy-sweet smells of coffee and fresh beignets from the local bakery nowhere to be found. With trepidation, I check her bedroom, but she’s not in there, sleeping or otherwise.

I whirl around at the sound of heavy footsteps and only slightly relax my clenched fists at the sight of Jack.

“She’s not here,” I say, shifting my feet. As my worry grows, I can’t sit still. “She’s not anywhere.”

He worries at his bottom lip. “Did you check the shop?”

What an odd question. “Yes, I looked everywhere. You were with me.”

He shakes his head, and a tendril of maple-colored hair falls over his brow. “No, no. The other shop.”

I have no idea what he means. The other shop? Did Sasha buy another location to sell books? She’d never mentioned something like that. “What are you talking about? What other shop?”

Jack’s eyes narrow, and he comes closer, peering into my face as if I’m some exotic specimen from the inner jungle. Whatever he sees in my expression causes him to sigh heavily. “You really don’t know.” He shakes his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth as if calling an old dog. “Come on.”

He circles my wrist with his long fingers, surprisingly gentle for a man his size. He leads me back downstairs to the bookshop and over to the unused brick fireplace.

“See that space right there?” He points at a medium-sized chip in one of the bricks on the side. Cracks lead away from it like spiderwebs, revealing crumbling plaster.

I laugh and run my finger over the familiar roughness. “Yea, that’s where I threw a toy truck during a tantrum as a toddler. Sasha was furious, or at least that’s what she told me.” I can’t really imagine Sasha being furious with me. Maybe severely unamused and a bit scolding, but that’s it.

“That’s what she told you, huh?” His mouth curls up on one side. “Stick the key in there.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You want me to stick the key into a brick?”

“Just do it.” When I continue to gape at him, he places his broad hands on my shoulders and positions me directly in front of the broken brick. “Go on.”

---