Page 88 of Duty Devoted

“I need to change clothes.” She moved past me, body angled to avoid even accidental contact. “Do whatever you need to do. Primary bedroom’s down the hall, guest room’s the first door on the right. Kitchen, obviously. Half bath by the entrance.”

She vanished down the hallway. A door closed. The lock engaged with finality.

I stood in her sterile living room, looking out at the city that trapped her as surely as any jungle. Two months ago, I’d convinced myself that leaving was protection. That she’d be better off without my damage, my violence, my broken pieces.

But this—this careful woman in designer armor, living in a fortress of glass and loneliness—this wasn’t better. This was what happened when you abandoned someone who’d already been told they were too much. Too tall, too strong, too independent.

Too everything, except what mattered.

I made myself work. Windows first—reinforced glass, good. But the latches needed upgrading, and anyone with rappelling gear could access from above. The front door had decent locks but no reinforced frame. A determined intruder could breach it in seconds.

The guest room was hotel-sterile. The kitchen looked barely used—one mug in the sink. Everything spoke of someone existing rather than living, going through motions that had lost their meaning.

I saved the primary bedroom for last, standing outside the closed door. “I need to check your windows.”

“Give me a minute.”

Drawers opened and closed quickly. When she finally emerged, she’d changed into jeans and a sweater. Still designer, still armor, but closer to the woman I remembered.

“Make it quick,” she said, stepping aside.

The bedroom was the only room that felt inhabited. Books stacked on the nightstand—medical journals mixed with escapist fiction. A Johns Hopkins hoodie thrown over a chair. On the dresser, a single photo: her with Elena, both grinning at the camera.

“That needs upgrading.” I pointed to the window latch, keeping my voice neutral. “Basic pin tumbler. I could get through it in thirty seconds.”

“Good thing you’re not trying to break in, then.”

“Lauren—”

“How long will this take? The whole security thing?”

“Few hours today. I’ll need to order equipment, arrange installation. Maybe a few days total.”

She moved to the doorway, creating a barrier with her body. “I have case files to review.”

I wanted to cross that space. Explain that every mile I’d run had just been geography. That seeing her like this—diminished, afraid, alone—was killing me in ways no bullet ever could.

But I’d lost the right to proximity the morning I’d chosen distance.

“I’ll be thorough,” I said instead. “Won’t take longer than necessary.”

She nodded and left. Her bedroom door closed again, another lock engaging. Message received.

I spent the next two hours cataloging vulnerabilities, making lists, planning improvements. But my mind kept circling back to that security footage. Someone had put hands on her. Made her feel helpless again when she’d just started to believe in safety.

The same promise I’d made in the jungle echoed through me: I’ll keep you safe.

I’d failed that promise once by leaving. I wouldn’t fail it again.

My phone buzzed. Text from Jace:

Status?

On site. Multiple security gaps. Will need full upgrade package.

And Lauren?

I stared at the blinking cursor, searching for words. The brilliant, vibrant woman I’d known, reduced to careful motions in a glass cage.