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

29. Jenna

TWENTY-NINE

Jenna

Sophia looks different, her once vibrant eyes are haunted and hollow. Her cheeks are gaunt, the bones jutting out sharply, and her clothes hang loosely from her too-thin frame as if she hasn’t eaten or rested properly in months. Once glossy and full of life, her hair lies limp and unkempt around her shoulders.

But it’s her.

There’s no mistaking it.

I rush to the door, my hands shaking as I fumble with the lock. A million questions race through my mind, but they all fall away as I pull the door open.

Sophia stumbles inside, collapsing into my arms.

“Jenna,” she sobs, her voice ragged and raw. “Is it really you?”

I hold her close, feeling the way her body trembles against mine. The desperation in her grip is palpable, her fingers digging into my arms as if I’m her lifeline. Over her shoulder, I scan the street, looking for any sign of pursuit, but it’s empty; the only movement is the lazy drifting of leaves pushed across the pavement by a gentle breeze.

“It’s me.” I pull back to get a good look at her. “I should ask the same. Is it you? How…” The shock of seeing her after so many years makes my brain misfire. “I don’t know what questions to ask.”

She pulls back, her eyes searching mine, a flicker of hope amidst the despair. Dark circles are etched beneath her eyes, like permanent shadows. Her lips are chapped and cracked. There’s a rawness to her that wasn’t there before, a brokenness that makes my heart ache.

“I can’t believe it’s you. When I saw you through the window, I thought I was hallucinating. I’ve been running for so long; I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

A pang of sympathy tightens my chest. I know that feeling all too well, the sense of dislocation, of being untethered from reality.

“Come.” I guide her toward one of the tables. “Sit. Let me get you something to drink.”

She sinks into a chair, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. I move behind the counter, going through the familiar motions of brewing a pot of tea. I choose soothing chamomile rather than a jolt of caffeine.

As the tea steeps, I watch Sophia out of the corner of my eye. She looks so tiny, so fragile, a far cry from the fierce, defiant girl I remember.

She’s the only girl who stood up to Lucian, who refused to break, no matter how hard he tried. Now, she hunches over, her shoulders slumped and eyes hollow.

Her once vibrant spirit is extinguished, replaced by a vacant shell and trembling hands. Whatever wounds she carries, they’re raw and deep.

Sophia is broken.

A shiver runs through me as memories rise unbidden, flashes of cruel smiles and rough hands, the bitter taste of fear on my tongue. I push them away, focusing on the present, on the girl in front of me who needs my help.

I pour chamomile tea into two mugs, the fragrant steam curling in the air, and carry them over to the table. Sophia takes one, cradling it between her palms as if trying to absorb its warmth into her bones .

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice thready and thin.

I sit across from her, my mug clasped in my hands.

“What happened? How did you find me?”

“I just saw you through the window and couldn’t believe it was you.”

“What happened to you?”

She takes a shaky breath, her gaze fixed on the swirling depths of her tea. “The night of the party, they took me. Locked me in a room, alone. I don’t know how long I was there. Days, weeks, maybe? Time lost all meaning.”

Her words send a chill down my spine, the echo of my trauma resonating in every syllable. I reach across the table, laying my hand over hers, a silent offer of support, of understanding.

“I thought I would die there.” Her voice is barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator. “But then, the door opened, and it was him.”

“Him?”

“The man who bought me. He took me and told me I was part of his private collection.”

“Private collection?”

“That’s what he called it. Said he was the curator and I belonged to him.”

Bile rises in my throat, hot and acidic. I know all too well the depravity that lies behind those words, the horror of being treated as nothing more than an object, a possession to be used and discarded at will.

“A little part of me died that day.”

“Sophia…” I reach for her, my heart splintering as she tells me her story. It could’ve been me. “How did you survive? How did…”

Dear God, it could’ve been me.

It could’ve been me.

“I waited. I waited for him to become complacent.” A flicker of her old defiance sparks in her eyes. “And when an opportunity finally came, I ran. I’ve been running ever since, never staying in one place too long, always looking over my shoulder. ”

She looks up at me, then, her gaze boring into mine, a desperate intensity burning in their depths.

“Tonight… I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you through the window. I thought I was hallucinating, but I stood out there all day, watching you.”

It wasn’t my imagination. I felt her gaze on me.

Not Lucian.

Not the man who bought me.

But Sophia.

Scared and all alone, how long did it take her to work up the courage to come to me?

My heart clenches, tears prickling at the back of my eyes. I squeeze her hand, trying to convey everything I can’t put into words. The solidarity, the shared pain, the fierce, unshakeable bond born of surviving the un-survivable binds us together.

“I have friends, people who can help. You’re safe here. I promise.” My voice is rough with emotion.

She a tentative smile ghosts across her lips, but it’s fleeting, chased away by the shadows that haunt her eyes.

I know that look, the constant vigilance, the fear that the next moment will bring the nightmare crashing back down around you.

I glance at the clock, realizing how late it’s gotten. Carter should be here by now, should have arrived to walk me home as he does every night.

A flutter of unease stirs in my gut, but I push it aside. He’s probably just caught up with the case and lost track of time.

He’ll be here soon.

“Why don’t you come home with me tonight? My place is just a few blocks away. We can get you cleaned up and get some food in you. Carter will be here soon.”

“Carter?” Sophia’s eyes widen at the mention of his name.

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “Carter’s a detective. He can help.”

Sophia shakes her head, her gaze darting to the windows, to the darkened street beyond. “No police. I can’t… I can’t trust them. Not after everything.”

I reach out, laying a hand on her arm. “Sophia, listen to me. Carter’s different. He knows what happened to me, to us. He’s trying to bring down the people who did this.”

She meets my gaze, her eyes frightened and uncertain. “I want to believe you, but I’m scared. I’ve been running for so long, I don’t know how to stop.” She gestures to the windows. “I don’t feel safe with all the glass. Anyone can see us.”

An idea strikes me: a way to ease her fears. “We’ll leave now. My apartment is close, and the streets are quiet. We can be there in minutes, and then we’ll be safe. Carter can meet us there.”

Sophia hesitates, biting her lip. Her eyes dart around, filled with a tumultuous mix of desperation and fear, the desire for safety warring with the ingrained fear of trusting anyone.

“We’ll be there before you know it. No one will know you’re there.”

Something in my words must reach her because she nods after a long moment, a single, jerky motion.

“Okay,” she whispers. “But let’s go now. Before I lose my nerve.”

Relief floods me, mingled with a sudden, urgent need to get her out of here and somewhere safe. I turn back to the café, my hands shaking slightly as I finish locking up.

The night air is cool against my skin, and the silence is broken only by the distant hum of traffic and Max’s soft breathing beside me. Sophia hovers close, her eyes wide and watchful in the dim light.

“This way.” I set off down the alley. “It’s not far.”

We walk quickly, our footsteps echoing off the brick walls. Every shadow seems to hold a threat, and every corner hides a hidden danger. I glance over my shoulder repeatedly, my heart pounding in my chest.

Suddenly, a screech of tires pierces the silence. Harsh headlights flood the street, momentarily blinding us. A dark van barrels toward us and then comes to a screeching stop, blocking our path.

I reach for Sophia, meaning to pull her back and find another way, but before I do anything, the van’s side door slides open, and men pour out.

Dark masks hide their faces .

Panic seizes me, cold and paralyzing. I try to run, to scream, but my legs won’t move. My voice is locked in my throat. Beside me, Sophia goes rigid, a choked gasp escaping her lips.

Max leaps forward, a snarl ripping from his throat. He lunges at the nearest attacker, his powerful jaws clamping down on an arm. But there are too many of them. They swarm him, fists and feet striking, but Max doesn’t relent, defending me with every ounce of his being.

Their hands reach and grab, tearing me away from Sophia’s side.

I scream, struggling against their grip, kicking and clawing with every ounce of strength I possess. But it’s not enough; their hold is too strong, and their determination too fierce.

A rough hand clamps over my mouth, muffling my cries. My heart races, fear flooding every inch of my body. I catch a glimpse of Sophia, standing still, not fighting back.

A gunshot cracks the air. Max yelps. His body thuds to the ground. A wail of anguish rips from my throat, raw and primal, as I watch his form go still, dark blood pooling beneath him.

“Max! No, Max!”

But there’s no time for grief, no time for anything but the blind, animal terror that consumes me. The world spins as they drag me toward the van. I fight harder, desperation fueling my every move.

But it’s futile.

They shove me inside.

Through the tangle of limbs and the blur of tears, Sophia climbs into the van of her own volition, her face a mask of shame and regret.

Betrayal, hot and sharp, lances through me.

The door slams shut, and darkness engulfs me. They force a hood over my head. The van roars to life, speeding away into the night.

I scream, a sound of rage and despair, until my voice gives out, and there’s nothing left but the bitter taste of defeat on my tongue.