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

11. Jenna

ELEVEN

Jenna

A few years ago

The harsh fluorescent lights of the enclave beat down on me, their constant buzz an annoying soundtrack. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, fear, and cheap perfume—a sickening cocktail that turns my stomach even now.

“Stand up straight, Jenna.” Lucian’s voice cuts like a whip.

I straighten my spine, ignoring the ache in my muscles from hours of posing. The scratchy fabric of the too-small dress chafes against my skin, a constant reminder of my place here. Around me, other girls move like dolls, their eyes vacant but their movements precise.

Beautiful even.

How could I have been so blind? The signs were everywhere—the locked doors, the strict schedules, the way the handlers’ eyes lingered too long. But I was naive, desperate for escape from my father’s abuse.

A girl to my left stumbles, her exhaustion finally overcoming her. In an instant, Lucian is there, his face a mask of cold fury .

“Focus. Disobedience will not be tolerated.” He grabs her arm. The girl—Sarah, I think her name is—whimpers as he drags her to the front of the room.

What follows is a lesson in cruelty. Sarah endures Lucian’s tirade. Each word is a lash, each gesture a blow, and each moment a test of her commitment to becoming a supermodel.

That is the stated goal.

I watch, my heart pounding, as tears stream down Sarah’s face.

The message is clear: comply or suffer.

That night, in the cold dormitory, I curl into myself, stifling my sobs. The sheets smell of bleach, harsh and chemical, burning my nose. In the distance, there are muffled cries—another girl breaking under the pressure.

I should leave. Being a super model isn’t worth this price.

But where would I go? Back to my father’s drunken rages? To the smell of stale beer and the sound of shattering bottles?

At least here, the pain is predictable. At least here, I know what to expect.

So I stay.

I learn to move gracefully, smile on command, and be the perfect little doll they want me to be. And in secret, late at night, I draw. Every face, every room, and every horrible detail—I capture it all, a silent witness to the nightmare around me.

Of course, I lost those sketches. I’ve always wondered what became of them. What I hold now is part of the therapy I underwent at the Facility. Hours and hours of rebuilding that book. The sketchbook falls from my trembling hands. The memory fades, but the fear, the shame, and the anger—it all remains, as fresh as if it happened yesterday.

Tears blur my vision as I pick up my sketches.

Carter deserves the truth, all of it. And those girls—they deserve every chance at rescue.

With shaking hands, I select the most relevant sketches. Each is a piece of my soul, a fragment of the horror I endured. But if they can help and save even one girl from suffering what I did, then it’s worth the pain of remembering .

The faces of girls I once knew stare back at me—Laura, Elizabeth, Jenny, and Andrea. A wave of shame washes over me when I realize I never wondered what happened to them.

Were they deemed worthy enough to sell, or were they discarded, returned to the brutal pasts they tried to escape? My stomach churns with guilt. How could I have been so selfish, so focused on my survival?

The sky is just beginning to lighten as I step out of my apartment, the sketchbook tucked securely in my bag. A cool breeze carries the scent of the nearby ocean, mingling with the earthy smell of dew-covered grass. This is my favorite time of day—when the world wakes up, fresh and new, full of possibilities.

Our small coastal town is still sleepy, and the streets are quiet and mostly empty. The occasional jogger or early-shift worker nods a greeting as they pass. Old Victorian houses line the street, their pastel colors muted in the soft pre-dawn light. Hanging baskets overflow with colorful flowers, adding splashes of color to the tranquil scene.

Walking the familiar few blocks to my coffee shop, I savor the peacefulness of a brand-new day. The distant cry of seagulls and the gentle rustling of leaves provide a soothing soundtrack to my journey. This daily ritual, this quiet time before the bustle of the day begins, has become my meditation, my way of centering myself.

Today, though, my mind is far from peaceful. The weight of the sketchbook in my bag grows with each step. Memories and worries swirl in my head, but I try to push them aside, focusing instead on the beauty around me.

When I reach Marlowe’s Café, my little slice of heaven, I’m energized and apprehensive. The familiar routine of opening the shop—unlocking the door, flipping on lights, starting the ovens and coffee machines—helps to ground me. The sweet aroma of pastries baking and the rich scent of brewing coffee soon fill the air, chasing away some of my anxiety.

As the first customers trickle in, I paste on a smile and lose myself in the rhythm of the morning rush. But beneath it all, a current of nervous energy thrums through me. It’s only a matter of time before Carter arrives.

The bell above the door jingles, and I greet Frank, Doris, and Mav as they come in. Their presence is a comforting constant in my life.

“Morning, Frank. Your usual?” I ask, already reaching for the coffee pot.

Frank grins, his mustache twitching. “You know it. Extra strong today, though. Didn’t get much sleep.”

I chuckle and pour his coffee. “Here you go. Strong and black.”

“You seem different today. Something on your mind?” Frank gives me a look as he takes his coffee.

“Just thinking about yesterday. I had lunch with a friend.” I hesitate for a moment, then smile.

“A friend, huh? Anyone we know?” Doris perks up, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

“Just a friend. It’s…” I struggle to find the right words to describe Carter.

Is he a friend? Am I working for him? Helping him? Should I stay quiet about it?

“He asked me to help with something important.”

“Sounds intriguing. Anything we can help with?” Mav looks up from her book, her curiosity piqued.

“Not right now, but I appreciate it. I’ll keep you posted.” I shake my head, grateful for their concern.

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and I relax as I settle into the rhythm of my slice of heaven. As the regulars settle into their usual spots, the coffee shop buzzes with the comforting rhythm of daily life.

Just as the morning rush begins to taper off, the bell above the door jingles again. My heart leaps into my throat as Carter walks in. Max trots faithfully by his side.

Our eyes meet, and the softness in his gaze makes my breath catch.

After those vivid and sensual dreams I had about him, my pulse quickens, and a rush of heat floods my body .

His muscular frame fills the doorway, commanding attention. Those piercing blue eyes find mine, and suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of every inch of him in a way I haven’t been before.

Carter has always been attractive, but after last night—after feeling his arms around me, his breath on my skin—he’s become irresistible.

I drink in the sight of him, my gaze tracing the contours of his muscular build beneath his well-fitted shirt. The way he carries himself, with that quiet confidence and strength, weakens my knees. He’s ruggedly handsome, and every inch of him screams protector. From the set of his broad shoulders to the alert and caring way he scans the room, he’s determined to serve and help those in need. That dedication only heightens his allure.

His jawline tenses slightly as he approaches, a sign of deep thought. A small scar above his eyebrow adds to his rugged charm. A tiny fleck of green in his left eye catches the light, visible only at certain angles. His presence is magnetic, pulling me in and making me yearn for his touch.

I subconsciously lean forward, desperate to close the distance between us. The air seems to thicken, and my breathing quickens as I take in every detail of his face. All I can see is Carter—the warmth of his gaze, the curve of his lips, and the strength in his hands as they rest on the counter.

My fingers itch to reach out and touch him, to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the stubble on his cheek.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to lean across the counter and kiss him right there, customers and propriety be damned.

“Morning, Jenna,” he says, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down my spine.

“Carter,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, thick with a mixture of desire and apprehension. “There’s something I need to show you.”

“What is it?” His voice is warm, with just a hint of concern.

“I have something that might help.” I pull my sketchbook out from under the counter .

“That’s great. Are you ready to go to the station and meet the sketch artist?” Carter’s eyebrows rise in surprise and curiosity.

I take a deep breath, my heart pounding.

“I should have told you about this earlier.” My voice wavers, guilt and fear tangling in my chest.

“Show me in my office.” Carter’s expression softens, concern replacing surprise.

“Okay.” I slip the sketchbook back under the counter and into my bag.

As we walk out, I glance back at my regulars, giving them a reassuring smile that feels more like a grimace. The drive to the station is filled with tense silence. My thoughts race, imagining Carter’s disappointment, his anger at withholding this from him.

Once inside Carter’s office, the sketch artist, Joe, is already waiting. With trembling hands, I place my drawing pad on Carter’s immaculate desk, flipping it open to the sketches. Carter’s eyes widen in amazement as he examines the drawings.

“You’re an artist?” He’s clearly impressed.

“I used to draw a lot.” I hesitate, the guilt overwhelming me. “I wasn’t sure how important this would be, and I… I was hoping that doing the sketches with Joe would be enough. That I could answer your questions and be done.”

I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

“But after spending time with you, learning about the case, about those girls… I realized I needed to do more, and if there was anything I could do to help find them, I should do it.”

To my surprise, instead of anger or disappointment, there’s only admiration in Carter’s eyes.

“Jenna, these are incredible. They could really make a difference.” He examines the sketches closely, his finger tracing the intricate lines. “The level of detail here is amazing. They’ll be a great help in identifying the men and places involved.”

Relief washes over me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m part of something meaningful, something that can bring light to the darkness of my past.

Joe leans in, his professional curiosity evident. “These are remarkably precise. The facial features and architectural details are like looking at photographs.”

Carter nods in agreement. “They might be good enough to run through our databases and see if we can get any hits on the men.” He pauses as he looks at the sketches of buildings and rooms. “As for the places… That might be trickier.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my heart sinking.

Carter sighs, running a hand through his hair. “My resources are limited. We’re chronically underfunded, and this kind of wide-scale search… It’s just not something we can execute.”

My hopes deflate, but Carter quickly continues, “But that doesn’t mean these aren’t incredibly valuable. Even if we can’t immediately locate these places, having these layouts could be crucial if we do find them.”

Joe nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely. And who knows? Maybe we can find a way to get some help with the search. These sketches are too good to not use to their full potential.”

As they continue to discuss the possibilities, a heavy weight lifts from my shoulders. The fear of Carter’s reaction and the guilt of my initial hesitation begins to fade, replaced by a sense of purpose.

I may not be able to change my past, but I can shape a better future for those girls with these sketches.

Some good can come from the darkness I endured.

“Do you know where any of these places are?” Carter examines one of my sketches; his brow furrowed in concentration.

“I don’t.” I shake my head, feeling a pang of guilt. “We were always moved around, never told our location.”

Carter nods thoughtfully, his attention never shifting from the sketches. “These are incredible. Even without exact locations, they’re invaluable.” He pauses, then adds, “I’ll give these sketches to my brother, Blake. He might be able to get some of Guardian HRS’s resources to perform a search.”

My heart skips a beat at the mention of Guardian HRS. During my time with them, there were whispers of what the organization could do with their advanced technology and vast resources. If anyone can find these places, it will be them .

Joe wraps up his sketchbook and leaves, giving me a polite nod as he exits. Now, alone with Carter, the awkwardness returns, mingling with our simmering chemistry.

Carter clears his throat. “Would you like to grab some lunch? There’s a place nearby I think you’d like.”

“That sounds great.” I want to spend more time with him.

We head out, and I study his profile as Carter makes a quick call to his brother. The strong line of his jaw and how his eyes crinkle at the corners as he talks intrigue me. I’m noticing things I’ve never allowed myself to see before.

We arrive at a small, cozy pizza joint. The relaxed atmosphere, with its soft rock playing from an old jukebox, immediately puts me at ease. Sally, our waitress, approaches with a warm smile. Carter orders for us.

As Sally leaves, Carter leans in slightly. “I appreciate you sharing those sketches. It couldn’t have been easy to do.”

His words, his genuine gratitude, warm me from the inside out. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m doing something important.