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

24. Jenna

TWENTY-FOUR

Jenna

The nightmares continue, as they have every night this week. I’m back in that cold, sterile room, the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, with the sickly-sweet scent of antiseptic burning my nostrils. Lucian stands before me, his face a mask of cruel indifference.

“Your performance has been unsatisfactory.” His voice drips with disdain. “How do you expect to be a successful model if you refuse to follow the simplest commands?”

I try to defend myself, but my tongue feels like lead in my mouth. Lucian’s iron will and unyielding gaze rob me of my voice.

“You leave me no choice.” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “You must learn the consequences of disobedience.”

Two of his burly guards appear from the shadows, their faces devoid of emotion. They grab me roughly by the arms, their fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise. They drag me down a long, narrow hallway, where the air grows colder with each step, and the walls press in on me.

I can’t breathe.

I know where they’re taking me .

The solitary detention cell.

I’ve managed to avoid it since my arrival, but the whispers of the other girls who’ve spent time down here echo in my mind. Tales of darkness, isolation, and a silence so deep it threatens to swallow you whole. It’s the thing nightmares are made of.

They toss me into a small, dark room, the door slamming shut behind me with a sickening thud. I pound on the unyielding metal, my screams echoing in the suffocating darkness.

“Lucian, please!” I beg and scream and beg some more. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

No one comes.

No one cares.

The dream shifts, and I’m on a cold metal table, my body exposed.

The lingerie savagely ripped from my body. Thick leather straps bind my wrists and ankles. The man who bought me looms over me, his face hidden in shadow. The sharp sting of a needle pierces my skin, a searing pain etching indelible marks into my flesh.

"This is to mark you as mine," he says, his voice devoid of emotion. He takes out a small tattoo gun and a bottle of ink. A guard holds my arm steady as the man who bought me begins to tattoo a small, intricate design onto the inside of my wrist. The pain is sharp, but I don't make a sound. I won't give him the satisfaction.

"There," he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "Now, you belong to me."

I jolt awake, my heart pounding and my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The nightmare clings to the edges of my consciousness, but the warmth of Carter’s body beside me pulls me back to reality.

I curl into him, his arm draped protectively over my waist, and try to steady my breathing.

“Another nightmare?” His voice is thick with sleep, his fingers combing through my tangled hair.

I nod against his chest, not trusting myself to speak. He pulls me closer, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck, letting his familiar scent and the steady beat of his heart soothe my frayed nerves.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His words are gentle, a lifeline in the darkness. His fingers comb through my tangled hair, soothing me—erasing my fears.

I take a shuddering breath and recount the dream, my voice trembling as I describe the suffocating darkness of the isolation room, the cruel indifference in Lucian’s eyes, and the terror of being strapped to that table. Carter listens patiently, his jaw clenching with barely contained anger.

“You’re safe now.” He presses a soft kiss to my forehead, his promise fierce.

I want to believe him, but the nightmares feel like a warning, a reminder that my past is never far behind.

As dawn breaks, Carter and I begin our morning routine. He’s stayed at my place every night since we met with the Guardians, and he’s not alone. Max, his loyal German Shepherd, is here too, following us around the apartment, his tail wagging with quiet contentment.

Carter has Max guarding me during the day, a silent protector who brings a sense of security to my battered soul.

What I love best are our mornings.

The domesticity of it all—brewing coffee, sharing a quick breakfast, stealing kisses between bites—feels good.

Carter and Max’s presence transforms these simple moments into something precious, making me feel safe and cherished.

“Are you sure you’re okay with going to the café today?” Carter asks, concern etching his features as he buttons his shirt. “After last night… I don’t want you to push yourself too hard.”

I give him a reassuring smile, even as the remnants of the nightmare linger in the shadows of my mind.

“I’ll be alright. They’re just dreams. With everything that’s happened recently, with opening up about my past—it’s not surprising they’ve resurfaced.” I rub absently at the hidden tattoo on the inside of my wrist .

In the years since it was placed, I blocked out the memory, completely forgetting about the table, the straps, and the sting of the needle.

Sentinel Nine.

It’s hard to believe I was that man’s ninth acquisition.

Carter pulls me close, his strong arms wrapping me in the security of his embrace. His gaze conveys incredible compassion and understanding.

“If you change your mind, if you need me, I’m just a phone call away.”

“I know.” I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “But you have important work to do with the Guardians. I’ve given you all the images and sketches I have. My part in this case is done, which means I can forget about it and focus on what matters.”

In other words, I spend my days trying to bury that part of my past. If my nightmares are any indication of how successful that is, then I’m doing a piss poor job of it.

“I don’t like being separated from you.” Carter’s gaze softens.

“Malia’s been holding down the fort at the café for too long. It’s time for me to return to some semblance of normalcy.”

With a final embrace and a promise to check in throughout the day, Carter heads out to continue his collaboration with the Guardian Hostage Rescue Specialists. Max whines softly as the door closes behind Carter, and I give the dog a comforting pat.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, buddy.” Max’s tail thumps against the floor in response. “Let’s get this day started.”

We walk the few blocks to the café. Max stays by my side, following Carter’s orders to protect me. The moment I step through the doorway to my domain, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the warmth of the ovens chase away any lingering fear from my nightmares.

The familiar routine of brewing coffee and baking scones helps to ground me, and soon, I’m lost in the comforting bustle of the morning rush.

Around mid-morning, a man walks into the café. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed beard and dark piercing eyes. His well-tailored suit and polished shoes speak of refinement and wealth. When he approaches the counter, his deep, cultured voice sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.

“Two large coffees, please.”

Something in his voice is vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

I ring up his order and set about preparing his coffee. As I work, he watches me, his gaze assessing and intense—intrusive even.

It’s not unusual—I’m used to men staring, a byproduct of my appearance—but it still makes me uncomfortable. I focus on the task at hand, trying to ignore the prickle of unease on the back of my neck.

When I hand him the coffee, our fingers brush briefly. A feeling I can’t quite name passes through me, gone as quickly as it came. He takes the drinks with a polite nod, leaves a massive tip, and exits my shop, climbing into a nondescript sedan parked across the street.

As the day wears on, I glance out that window more times than I care to admit. Something about that man makes me edgy and jumpy.

My thoughts drift to Carter. I wish he were here. His solid presence is reassuring when my thoughts get muddied. I’m ashamed to admit it, but the stranger’s visit unsettles me more than it should.

I shrug it off, however, attributing it to my nightmares, and if I’m being honest, all he did was order two coffees and leave.

I feel out of sorts.

Hyperaware.

Letting my imagination run wild.

As much as I wish Carter was here with me, his work is important. The missing girls need him more than I do. I know this, but the longing persists, a dull ache in my chest that won’t go away.

The next few days pass in a blur of caffeine and growing paranoia. The same man returns every day, always cordial and polite, but something about him puts me on edge.

His car is parked outside the café at odd hours, sometimes in the early morning when I arrive to open up, other times late at night as I’m locking the doors. Sometimes, he comes alone, ordering a single coffee, but other times, he orders two. When he does, I peek out the window and see another figure in the sedan, not in the passenger seat, but in the back.

It makes me think the man works for whoever is sitting in the car, an odd arrangement that sets off alarm bells in my head.

But I’m being foolish.

My nerves are frayed, and tension twists through me as my overactive imagination creates shadows in every corner. I remind myself it’s just the lingering effects of my nightmares and that I’m overreacting.

But the unease continues to build.

Every now and then, a prickling sensation of being watched comes over me. It never quite goes away and turns into a constant companion that sets my nerves on edge.

I rationalize my unease, chalking it up to my recent nightmares, but the feeling of being watched persists.

I wish for Carter’s presence more and more, longing for the safety and comfort of his arms. But I don’t want to burden him, not when he’s so close to cracking the case of the missing girls. So, I keep my fears to myself, trying to push through the growing sense of dread that follows me like a shadow.

As I walk home from the café with Max by my side, the unease that’s been building over the past few days reaches a crescendo. The streetlights flicker to life, casting eerie shadows on the pavement. Max presses close to my leg, a comforting presence in the growing darkness, but I still feel uneasy.

I can’t explain it better than that.

Inside my apartment, I make dinner. The routine of chopping vegetables and stirring pots helps soothe my frayed nerves, but it’s a temporary distraction.

Max settles at my feet, his warm weight a reminder that I’m not alone. He makes me feel safe, and if anything bad happens, he’ll alert and protect me.

No sooner does that thought cross my mind than Max’s head jerks up. His ears thrust forward, and a low, menacing growl reverberates deep within his chest .

The hairs on my arms stand up.

A sharp and insistent knock rattles the door, setting Max off. He erupts in a frenzy of snarling and barking, all teeth and fangs. His hackles raise as he lunges toward the door, snapping with his teeth at a threat beyond the door.