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

10. Jenna

TEN

Jenna

I wake with a start, my heart racing. The lingering sensations from my dream still tingle across my skin. Sunlight filters through the curtains, painting my small apartment bedroom in a soft, golden glow. As I stretch, memories of last night flood back in vivid detail.

Carter’s strong hands were gentle yet firm. His touch sent electricity coursing through me, which was intoxicating. That almost kiss left me breathless, wanting more.

I close my eyes, savoring the memory of his arms around me and his body’s warmth against mine. I can’t help but smile.

Lunch with Carter was—unexpected.

Wonderful.

The easy conversation, the laughter, the way he looked at me—like I was the only person in the world—felt so natural, so right.

For the first time in years, I let myself imagine what it might be like to have more. More dinners, more laughter, more of Carter.

My dreams last night definitely explored ‘more’ in vivid, sensual detail. My cheeks flush as fragments of the dream resurface—Carter’s lips on my skin, his hands exploring, the way he made me feel cherished and desired .

Shaking off the lingering tendrils of the dream, I slip into my yoga clothes. I pause at the irony as I unroll my mat in the living room. Yoga, the one thing I kept from my time at the enclave, has become my sanctuary—a way to clear my mind and find balance in the chaos of my memories.

As I move through the poses, my breath is steady and controlled. Tension slowly releases from my body, but today, unlike most mornings, my mind keeps drifting back to Carter.

To the case.

To the past.

To the memories I’ve tried so hard to leave behind.

After my session, drawn by an impulse I don’t fully understand, I head to the back of my closet and pull out the old steamer trunk. The scent of aged leather and old memories envelop me as I rummage through items I haven’t touched in years.

My fingers brush against something familiar—my old sketch pad.

I’ve thought about throwing it away so many times. Each spring cleaning, I held it in my hands, poised to throw it in the trash.

Something always stopped me, an inexplicable feeling that it might be important someday. I never understood why I couldn’t let go of this tangible link to my darkest days.

Dusting it off, I flip through the pages. Each sketch vividly reminds me of the places I worked, the men I encountered, and the horrors I endured. Every detail is preserved with unsettling accuracy, showcasing my nearly eidetic memory. It’s a gift—or perhaps a curse—I’ve kept hidden along with so much else.

As I stare at the drawings, guilt washes over me. These sketches, rendered with painful accuracy, could have helped Carter. I should have told him about them when he first asked for help.

But I didn’t.

I kept silent, and I’m not entirely sure why.

Maybe it was the fear of dredging up the pain of my past, of reliving those horrific moments in graphic detail. Or perhaps it was the dread of seeing judgment in Carter’s eyes once he knew the full extent of what I’d been through, what I’d seen .

What I did.

Whatever the reason, I held back, and now we’re entangled with Joe, the sketch artist, working hard on recreations I could have provided effortlessly.

The weight of my silence feels heavier now, knowing a fourth girl has gone missing.

Another young life in danger, another family torn apart.

I can’t help but wonder: if I had shared these sketches earlier, could we have prevented this?

Could we have saved her?

I close the sketchbook, pressing it to my chest as if I could absorb its contents and erase the guilt, but it’s not that simple. I’ve kept this part of myself hidden for so long that it feels almost impossible to bring it into the light. Yet, it’s time.

For the missing girls.

For Carter.

And maybe even for myself.

The thought of sharing these drawings and the memories that accompany them terrifies me, but the image of Carter’s determined face and gentle encouragement gives me strength. The faces of those missing girls, their futures hanging in the balance, steel my resolve.

I can’t change the past or my initial reluctance to share, but I can do something now. I can help with this case—really help—in a way that might make a difference.

It’s time to stop running from my past and face it head-on. With Carter by my side, maybe I can find the courage to do just that.

I clutch the sketchbook so tightly that my knuckles turn white. My heart races, a mixture of fear and determination coursing through my veins.

Today will change everything—my relationship with Carter, my role in the investigation, maybe even how I see myself. What if he can’t forgive me for hiding this?

The memory of his gentle touch, warm eyes, and the almost-kiss that still makes my lips tingle—it all feels so precious and vulnerable.

I might lose it all .

But I have to do this.

For the missing girls.

For Carter.

For the truth I’ve hidden for so long.

Guilt gnaws at me as I flip through the pages. I should have told him from the beginning. I should have been brave enough to face my past.

As I stare at a particularly explicit sketch, the world around me fades, and I’m thrust back into the past.