Jenna’s Protector (Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists: CHARLIE Team #4)

7. Jenna

SEVEN

Jenna

I open the door, Max greets me first, his tail wagging excitedly. I kneel down, grateful for the excuse to delay looking at Carter. Max’s wet nose snuffles at my hands, and I flinch slightly when he nears my wrist. Even though he can’t see or smell the tattoo, I feel exposed.

I bury my fingers in Max’s fur, feeling the soft, warm comfort of his presence. Max nudges me, his tail wagging happily.

“Sorry, buddy,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears with my other hand. “No treats today.”

Finally, I force myself to stand and face Carter.

He fills the doorway, tall and confident, his rugged, handsome face framed by the early morning light. His strong jawline, the slight stubble, and those piercing eyes that seem to see right through me—they all make my heart skip a beat.

God, he’s sexy.

Everything about him exudes strength and confidence. I wish he were here to sweep me off my feet and show me the kind of love I’ve only dreamed of. Instead, he’s here to take me to a sketch artist and relive the worst moments of my life.

His eyes, warm and concerned, meet mine, and for a moment, I let myself imagine a different scenario—one where he’s here to take me on a date rather than force me to relive my worst nightmares.

“Ready to go?” Carter’s voice is gentle.

I nod, not trusting my voice. As I lock my door behind me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m locking away more than just my apartment—I’m locking away any hope of a normal life, of a future untainted by my past.

The invisible tattoo on my wrist feels like it’s burning; a constant reminder of the horrors I’m about to relive.

As we walk to his truck, Max bounds ahead, his excitement palpable. I can’t help but envy his simple joy. Carter opens the passenger door for me, his hand gently resting on my back as I climb in. His touch ignites a desire I’ve tried so hard to suppress.

The drive starts in silence, the air heavy with unspoken thoughts.

“How are you holding up?” Carter clears his throat, breaking the silence.

“I’m okay,” I lie, my voice barely above a whisper. “Just—nervous.”

“That’s understandable,” he replies gently. “If there’s anything I can do to make this easier for you, just let me know.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I turn and stare out the window, needing to talk about anything other than what I’m about to do but not knowing how.

Desperate for a distraction, I take a deep breath, feeling a little of the tension ease.

“Tell me about Max. How long have you had him?”

“Max has been with me for about five years.” Carter’s face lights up, and he glances at Max in the rearview mirror. “He’s my partner in more ways than one.”

Max barks softly as if acknowledging the praise, and I can’t help but smile.

“He’s a good dog.”

“The best,” Carter agrees. “He’s been through a lot with me.”

“It must be nice having someone like that by your side.” I nod, feeling a little lighter .

“It is,” Carter says, his tone softening.

He smiles, and for a moment, the weight of the day ahead feels a little more bearable. As we pull into the station, I take a deep breath. There’s no way to sugarcoat this, but today is going to be hard.

We walk into the station, Carter leading the way with Max at his side. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow, and a little shiver runs down my spine. My heart pounds, and the walls close in as we approach a small room off the main corridor.

This is Carter’s space, and that makes it special. The first thing I notice is the contrast between his desk and everything else. The linoleum is cracked, and the furniture is a bit worn, but Carter’s desk is a study of brutal efficiency.

It’s immaculate. Every item has its place—the stapler is perfectly aligned, there’s a clean desk pad, and the pens are neatly stacked in a holder. There’s no dust. No clutter. It’s like a window into his mind, showing a level of care and precision that I haven’t seen before.

I point to the picture of Carter and another man who looks identical to him.

“I didn’t know you had a twin.”

“That’s my brother, Blake.” Carter looks at the photo and smiles. “He enlisted in the Navy when I went to the Police Academy. Blake’s a badass. Became a SEAL and now works for the same organization that Forest runs.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “That’s pretty amazing.”

“Yeah, he’s done well for himself.” He shrugs modestly. “We’re close, even if our paths took us in different directions.”

I nod, absorbing this new information about Carter. It makes me see him in a different light—not just as a man who comes to my café every day, but as someone with a complex and interesting life.

A sudden, sharp rap on the door makes me jump. A man in a worn tweed jacket steps in, the scent of charcoal and paper wafting in with him. His fingers are smudged black, and he clutches a drawing pad to his chest like a shield .

“Hi, I’m Joe Smith, the sketch artist,” he says with a polite nod, his voice softer than I expected.

Carter’s hand rests lightly on my shoulder. “Are you ready, Jenna?” His touch is warm and reassuring, but it can’t quell the anxiety churning in my stomach.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Not in the slightest.” The words come out as a whisper. “But let’s do this.”

“Most people haven’t done this before, but don’t worry. I’ll talk you through the whole thing.” Joe’s kind smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s seen too much, I realize.

Like me.

Carter guides me to his desk chair. The leather is cool against my skin, starkly contrasting with the warmth spreading from where his hand brushed mine. The chair creaks as I settle in, the sound loud in the tense silence of the room.

Joe takes a seat across from me, the scratch of his chair legs against the linoleum floor setting my teeth on edge. Max flops down at my feet with a soft whine, his warm presence comforting.

Carter wheels in another chair, the high-pitched screech making me wince. He positions it next to mine, close enough that I can smell his aftershave—an oddly calming woodsy scent.

“We’re going to take it slow, okay?” Joe’s voice is gentle as he flips open his sketchpad. The crisp sound of a new page-turning feels like the start of something I can’t take back.

“What do you want? Who do you want?” I glance at Carter, suddenly unsure.

“What about the man who recruited you?” Carter’s brow furrows in thought.

“His name is Lucian Drake.” A chill runs down my spine at the mention of Lucian’s name. My fingers instinctively move to my wrist, rubbing at the invisible tattoo. I force myself to nod, my throat too tight for words.

“Whenever you’re ready, Jenna.” Joe’s pencil hovers over the paper, expectant. He leans forward, his kind eyes meeting mine. “Let’s start with the basic shape of his face. Was it round, oval, square? ”

I close my eyes, letting the memory surface. A bustling mall fades into view, the scent of pretzels and perfume mingling in the air. I was seventeen, lost in the crowd when he appeared.

“Oval,” I say, opening my eyes. “But with a strong, defined jawline.”

Joe’s pencil scratches against the paper, the sound unnervingly similar to a knife scraping against a plate.

“Good. Now, what about his eyes? Their shape, size, placement?”

I swallow hard, remembering how those eyes had locked onto me, making me feel seen for the first time in my life.

“Almond-shaped. Dark, almost black. They were—intense. Set deep under strong brows.”

The mall around me had seemed to fade away, leaving only those piercing eyes.

“His nose?” Joe prompts gently.

“Straight. Aristocratic.” My voice wavers. “It suited his high cheekbones.”

Joe nods, his hand moving swiftly across the page. “Hair?”

“Dark and slicked back but with a natural wave,” I remember how a single lock had fallen across his forehead as he’d smiled at me, promising a world of glamour and success.

“Any distinctive features? Scars, moles, anything unusual?”

I shake my head, my hair brushing against my cheeks. “No, he was—perfect. Almost too perfect, like a statue.” The memory of his flawless face makes my skin crawl. “Well-oiled comes to mind.”

“Well-oiled?” Joe’s pencil pauses.

“Everything about him was smooth, polished. From his manicured nails to his tailored suit. He looked expensive, untouchable.”

As Joe continues to sketch, the face on the paper becomes more and more real. It’s like watching a ghost materialize before my eyes.

Max senses my distress and presses his head against my leg. I reach down to stroke his fur, grateful for the distraction.

“What about his expression?” Joe asks. “Was he smiling, serious? ”

The memory hits me like a punch to the gut. His smile was charming and predatory all at once.

“He was smiling. But it didn’t reach his eyes. They remained cold, calculating.”

“What about his eyebrows? Were they thick, thin, arched?” Joe continues sketching, asking occasional questions about the man’s features.

“Thick and slightly arched,” I respond, my voice steadier now. “He had a very commanding presence.”

“And his lips?” Joe asks, his pencil pausing.

“Thin, almost cruel looking.” The memory becomes clearer with each detail.

Joe adds the final touches to the sketch.

“Is this him?” He turns the pad around, and the blood drains from my face.

Lucian Drake stares back at me from the paper, just as handsome and terrifying as the day he approached me in that mall, promising me the world and delivering me into hell.

“That’s him,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “That’s Lucian Drake.”

Carter leans in, his shoulder brushing mine. The warmth of his presence anchors me to the present, reminding me that I’m safe now.

But as I stare at Lucian’s face, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s still hunting for his next victim somewhere out there.

Suddenly, I’m seventeen again, standing before an imposing structure that looks more like a fortress than a modeling school. The summer heat beats down on me, but a chill runs through my body.

“Welcome to your new home,” Lucian says, his smooth voice cutting through the hum of cicadas.

My heart pounds with excitement and apprehension all rolled into one. The facility looms before us, its high walls topped with glinting barbed wire. The knot in my stomach tightens.

“What’s with the security?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“It’s for your protection, of course. We want to keep you safe from the outside world.” Lucian’s hand on my shoulder is meant to be reassuring, but his touch makes my skin crawl.

I nod, desperately wanting to believe him. The heavy doors close behind us with a resounding clang that echoes in my chest. The smell hits me first—antiseptic and sterile—nothing like the perfumed chaos of the world of fashion I imagined.

The interior is stark and clinical. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh glow on the polished floors. Rows of identical doors line the hallways—dormitories, classrooms, training rooms. My footsteps echo in the oppressive silence.

“These are the rules. Read them carefully.” Lucian hands me a booklet, the glossy pages cool against my sweaty palms.

As I flip through, my eyes widen. Curfews, restricted areas, mandatory training sessions. This isn’t the glamorous life I dreamed of. It’s regimented and controlled. A lump forms in my throat.

“Modeling is hard work.” Lucian’s dark eyes bore into mine. “You’re here to work, not goof off. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice small and trembling. “I understand.”

The days blur together. We’re isolated, cut off from our families, and subjected to relentless training and indoctrination.

The constant drone of instructors, the squeak of markers on whiteboards, the rhythmic counting during exercise routines—it all blends into a cacophony of control.

My initial excitement turns to dread, but I cling to the hope of fame and fortune.

I’m going to be a supermodel.

I repeat it like a mantra, trying to drown out the growing voice of doubt.

If only I had known. This wasn’t an escape. It was a nightmare, and I walked right into it.

Shame washes over me. How could I have been so foolish? The signs were there, glaring and obvious, but I was young, desperate for a way out, blinded by promises of a better life.

The memory fades, and I blink rapidly, the office coming back into focus. My heart races, and I struggle to catch my breath. The taste of fear lingers in my mouth, metallic and bitter.

“Jenna? Are you okay?” Carter leans in, his hand gently touching my arm. The warmth of his fingers grounds me in the present. His voice is low, concern etching his features.

I meet his gaze, finding myself momentarily lost in the depth of his eyes. There’s something there—understanding, maybe even a hint of protectiveness—that makes my breath catch for an entirely different reason.

“Yeah,” I manage to say, though my voice wavers. “Just—memories.”

Carter’s hand remains on my arm, a comforting presence. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing small circles on my skin. “You’re safe.”

For a moment, the world narrows to just us—Carter’s touch, his steady gaze, the subtle scent of his aftershave. It’s a bubble of safety amid painful recollections.

Joe clears his throat softly, breaking the spell. “It can be triggering when recounting details of those who’ve hurt you,” he says, his tone gentle. “Do you need a break?”

“Yes, please.” I’m grateful for the suggestion.

Max nudges my leg, his warm presence a comfort. I reach down to pet him, my fingers sinking into his soft fur, anchoring me further to the present.

As I sit there, trying to steady my breathing, I can’t shake the lingering smell of sterile antiseptic and lingering fear.

Shame burns hot in my chest—shame for my naivety, shame for falling for their lies, and shame for trusting too easily.

Beneath it, a tiny spark of determination flickers to life. Maybe by facing these memories, I can help others avoid the same trap.

“You have an incredibly vivid recollection of this person’s face,” Joe says. “That’s pretty incredible.”

“I’ve got a thing for faces.” I shift uncomfortably, feeling exposed.

It’s more than a thing.

It’s a superpower.

“Are you okay?” Carter looks at me with concern.

Before I can answer, his phone buzzes. The sudden noise makes me flinch. He glances at the screen, his expression darkening .

“I have to take this,” he says, stepping away.

As Carter talks in hushed tones, my gaze is drawn back to the sketch. Lucian’s face stares back at me, every detail hauntingly accurate.

But it’s not just his face that I remember.

In my mind’s eye, I see a flood of images—the bare hallways of the facility, the faces of the other girls, the lavish parties where we were paraded like prized cattle.

I can draw them all in excruciating detail. I’ve drawn them many times before.

“That was the station. Another girl has gone missing.” Carter returns, his jaw set in a grim line.

The air rushes out of my lungs. Joe pales, his pencil slipping from his fingers.

“How old?” I manage to ask, dreading the answer.

“Seventeen,” Carter says, his voice tight. “Just like you were.”