Page 87 of Duty Devoted

“You screamed for help. You completely collapsed.” Richard’s voice gentled. “The security footage?—”

“I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. Her shoulders pulled up toward her ears, trying to make her tall frame smaller. Her free hand had found her opposite elbow, half a self-hug she probably didn’t realize she was giving herself. The careful space she maintained between all of us mapped the exact dimensions of her fear.

“This is a precaution,” Catherine said. “Just until we’re sure?—”

“Fine.” Defeat flattened the word. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

“Lauren—” Richard held out an upturned hand.

“I said fine.” She finally looked at me, and the blankness in her eyes sucked the air out of my lungs.

It was like there was nothing there. No anger, no hurt, no recognition of what we’d been to each other. Just empty appraisal, like I was furniture that needed arranging. “You can do whatever security assessment you need. I’ll be in my apartment.”

She turned on her heel, leaving silence in her wake.

“Give her a moment,” Richard advised as I stood. “She needs time to adjust to changes.”

He said that like her whole world hadn’t already been turned inside out. Like she hadn’t watched a man die for the crime of being her patient. Like she hadn’t been hunted through the jungle by psychopaths.

Like I hadn’t abandoned her when she’d needed me most.

“I’ll go with her,” I said. “Start the security evaluation.”

“Of course.” Richard’s eyes held warning. “I don’t know what happened between you two in Corazón. But my daughter’s been through enough. Don’t make this harder than necessary.”

Too late for that. I’d already made everything harder by leaving. By thinking absence was kindness, when all I’d done was confirm her worst fears about herself.

I found my own way out, taking the elevator down twelve floors in silence. Her door stood slightly ajar when I arrived. I knocked anyway.

“It’s unlocked.” Her voice carried from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

I stepped inside and stopped. This space felt different from her parents’ museum piece. Still expensive, still pristine, but…hollow. No personal touches. No photographs. No medical journals scattered around. Like she was camping in someone else’s life.

“I need to do a walk-through,” I called out. “Check windows, locks, sight lines.”

“Go ahead.”

I followed her voice to the living room, where floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Chicago’s skyline. She stood with her back to me, arms wrapped around herself, studying the city like it might provide answers.

“Lauren—”

“Don’t.” She didn’t turn. “Whatever you’re about to say, just don’t.”

“I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t.” Now she faced me, but her eyes fixed on a point past my shoulder. “I’m a big girl, Logan. I know not every hookup is meant for romance and permanence.”

Hookup. The word hit like shrapnel.

“That’s not what?—”

“We let hormones and adrenaline get the better of us.” Her hand cut through the air, slicing away meaning. “It happens. Extreme situations, close quarters, shared danger. Trauma bonding. Classic recipe for inappropriate attachment.”

Inappropriate attachment. Like what we’d shared could be reduced to a paragraph in some psychology textbook.

“Lauren—”