Page 97 of Rescuing Rebel

A shadow suddenly detaches from the darkness up ahead. Fear stabs through me before it steps into a swath of moonlight, becoming a familiar broad-shouldered form.

Ethan.

Even at a distance, he radiates a formidable, commanding power. The moonlight glints off his hair, throwing his rugged features into sharp relief. He moves with the power and lethality of a warrior.

A protector.

A Guardian.

We stare wordlessly across the span for endless racing heartbeats. Propriety and caution scream at me to turn away and retreat to my rooms, but I find myself helpless to move as Ethan approaches with firm strides. His presence envelopes me, radiating strength, protection, and empathy that pierces my soul.

He stops beyond arm’s reach, searching my face in the pale illumination. “Rebel,” he murmurs, my chosen name intimate on his lips. “Are you okay?”

I open my mouth but can’t find any words. It’s been too long since someone asked about my well-being. Am I okay? I can’t remember the last time that was true. I nod in a mute reply.

Ethan’s gaze traces the lurid bruise on my cheek, visible even in the silvered moonlight. His jaw tightens, old fury simmering beneath his controlled exterior. Slowly, giving me time to pull away, he extends a hand.

When I don’t retreat, his fingers graze my skin with a feather-light caress, his touch impossibly gentle on the tender bruise. I don’t deserve such tenderness, but a shaky exhale escapes me at this caring contact—the first I’ve known in ages.

My eyes close, a lump rising in my throat. Ethan steps nearer, his presence enveloping me in familiar warmth and strength. For a fleeting moment, the icy chill of my isolation melts away.

“You don’t have to serve him.” Ethan’s hushed words are heavy with empathy. He searches my downcast face. “Let me help.” His voice catches with emotion.

I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s too late,” I whisper. “Just finish your mission and forget me. Please.”

Ethan cups my cheek, thumb gently tracing the ugly bruise marring my skin. “I will never abandon you here.” He swallows hard. “You deserve better than this.”

“I deserve to burn in hell.” Overcome, I briefly cover his hand with my own, clinging to this lifeline of selfless devotion, but reality intrudes. With deep regret, I step back out of his sheltering embrace. “Go,” I plead raggedly. “Before we’re seen.”

Ethan searches my face, tormented, but he respects my choice, hand falling away with reluctance. My skin instantly misses his warmth. We stand frozen, drowning in an ocean of unsaid words that fills the space between us.

At last, Ethan melts back into the shadows, the darkness closing around him until he’s gone from sight. The imprint of his tender touch remains, a bittersweet reminder that I’m not forgotten.

Someone still cares.

It is enough, barely, to sustain me through the deepening isolation.

I shake my head, a lump rising in my throat. I want to accept the refuge he offers, but my secrets run too deep. Kaufman would sooner kill me than let me go. Not that I can think of escape until I find something that will lead me to Violet’s trail.

I remain frozen long after Ethan’s gone, wrapped in an aching hollowness. His compassion leaves me more gutted than Kaufman’s cruelty ever could because Ethan offers what I crave most.

He offers me a way out of this nightmare.

During a short reprieve the next day, I steal away to the records room again, combing through the endless files, but like all the other times, my visit proves fruitless. Violet remains lost to me.

Utterly disheartened, I make my way back upstairs.

As auction day looms, Kaufman’s temper builds. Yet, I still search. When I can’t slip away to the records room, I wander the halls, feeling the heat of Ethan’s watchful gaze, taking what solace I can in our wordless kinship.

THIRTY-SIX

Ethan

The opulent ballroomoozes with depravity, masquerading as civility. The soft murmurs of polished men mingle around me as they await the auction, sipping aged scotch and smoking cigars. Their wingtips glint under the chandeliers as they move between groups, voices low and eager.

I stand apart from the men, jaw clenched, maintaining a polite veneer while disgust twists my gut. These men have come to purchase captive girls forced into slavery, the Angels. Conditioned into obedience, they will be sold as fantasy pets.

I must play along a little longer before Alpha and Bravo teams are in position. Kaufman sidles up to me, oozing smugness. “Quite a turnout, wouldn’t you say?”

---