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THE PROTECTOR

T he skull mask feels like a second skin. It smells of leather, sweat, and like dust soaked in blood. I shouldn't be wearing it, because it was Ruslan’s. It’s as if I’m twisted inside, unclear who to be anymore.

No longer do I jog.

No longer am an FBI agent

No longer am I anything.

I’m a shadow of the man that I use to be as I stand in the hotel parking lot. I stand in the shadow of an old oak tree, its branches reaching toward the third-floor window like skeletal fingers. The air is cool and still, carrying the distant sounds of highway traffic and the scent of exhaust. My breath fogs against the inside of the mask, warm and damp against my face.

I press my fingertips against the cold bone of the mask's cheek. Ruslan wore this when he watched her. When he stood beneath her window at night, hidden in plain sight, a guardian angel with blood on his hands. Now I've become him—the watcher, the protector, the man who loves from a distance because getting too close means death.

A yellow rectangle of light appears as her curtains part. I see her silhouette—no longer a brunette disguise of Hazel from witness protection, but the rich Penelope's natural hair. She's back to being herself now. The danger has passed, and so has her fear. Earlier tonight, when Noah told me about the police report Hazel filed, that she had quit her job and was now back to being Penelope. The seventeen-old-year that Ruslan rescued, I knew that I had to call on a favor from a friend in the agency and find out where she was when she didn’t go back to her apartment tonight. I didn’t need to call a friend, because Noah had been watching her too. Making sure there was no more danger and that she was safe.

I should leave, and drive until the distance between us is too great to cross. Everyone I love dies. My mother, Ruslan and my brother, and Penelope deserves better than that.

I can't move, because I can’t tear my eyes away from her window, from the shadow of her moving about the room.

Then she's gone from the window, and I exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The night air rushes into my lungs, cold and sharp. I should go. I've seen her. She's safe. That's all that matters.

As I turn to leave, I hear the hotel's side exit door open. My hand moves automatically to the knife at my belt, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip.

And then I see her.

Penelope steps into the parking lot, a long navy robe cinched tightly around her waist, bare feet silent against the pavement. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, as she walks toward me.

I don't move. The mask suddenly feels like a prison, trapping my breath, my voice, my very self inside this shell of death.

She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell her—soap and sleep-warm skin. Her eyes lock onto the skull mask, and something darker flickers across her face.

"Is that who you're becoming now?" she asks. "Your brother?"

I don't answer right away. There's too much history buried in that question—too many nights spent tracing Ruslan's footsteps, too many times when I’ve seen my reflection. I’ll see his rage staring back at me.

But I'm not him.

"No," I say finally. "I'm not Ruslan. I don't want anything to happen to you. Not ever again."

She studies me for a long moment. Then she nods. "Good."

I pull the mask off, my fingers stiff from the cold. My skin underneath feels flushed, raw, exposed. She doesn't look away. Doesn't flinch. She steps closer, the night holding its breath, and when she touches me—just her fingertips on my jaw—it's like something inside me comes undone.

"Why are you here, Jamie?" she asks, her voice softer now. "Why are you watching me instead of being with me?"

“You told me to stay away. You said that you needed to be alone and it cut like a knife.”

“And the big Jamie Whatts, the FBI agent just does what he’s told and decides to stay away. What happened to you?”

Her hand slides from my jaw to my chest, resting over my heart. I wonder if she can feel it hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "Then stop watching and fight for me."

I shake my head, taking a half-step back. My body screams at the loss of her touch. "I don't deserve—"

"Bullshit." The word snaps like a whip. "You know that you want me, just as much as I want you.”

She has no idea what she’s talking about, I’m not Ruslan I know that. I think I always have done. I don’t rescue kids and then care about what happens to them after. I rescue them, because it means a promotion, more money that I don’t need, a stroke of my ego. I don’t donate to charity and I’ve never fixed my neighbor’s fence, or promised to pay a health care bill for a stranger I don’t know. All good Samaritan things that both Noah and Ruslan have done without thinking twice, the problem is that I’ve never thought let alone done anything which doesn’t serve me.

“Is that what you really want?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, hopeful and terrified at once.

She holds my gaze, unwavering. “You.I want you.”

One word. Just one word, and it brings me to my knees more effectively than any bullet ever could.

"I can't resist you," I confess, my voice breaking. "God knows I've tried. But I want you. I've always wanted you."

Something shifts in her eyes then—a decision made, a line crossed. Her hands move to the belt of her robe. "So then takes me."

The robe falls open, revealing nothing but pale skin beneath, luminous in the artificial light of the parking lot. My breath catches in my throat. She’s perfect, in every single way. Her curves, her breasts, the touch of her skin sends me to places which I never thought were possible.

I should turn away. Should give her my coat and take her back inside, away from prying eyes and the cold night air. But I'm rooted to the spot, desire and love and grief tangling together until I can't separate one from the other.

She steps forward, backing me against the rough bark of the oak tree. Her hands find my face, cupping my jaw with a tenderness I don't deserve just as she did in the cabin. A touch which has replayed in my mind, over and over again. "Stop thinking," she whispers, her breath warm against my lips. "Just feel."

I let her kiss me. Let her silence every thought in my head. Her mouth is warm and full of purpose, and when I push her back against the tree, it's not out of dominance. It's desperation. It's need. Her moan threads through me like a live wire, and I swear I feel it in my bones.

Her hands are everywhere—pulling at my coat, yanking at my shirt, nails dragging down my spine. My name is a gasp on her lips, and I bury my face in her neck, in her hair, in the soft sound of her breaking for me.

Clothes tear. My belt unbuckles with a snap. Her legs wrap around me, and I press her harder into the bark, like I can fuse her to the tree and keep her here. Keep her mine. Her teeth catch my bottom lip, and I groan, the sound ragged and half-strangled.

This isn't gentle. It's not sweet. It's fire under the skin, grief turned to heat. Her breath hitches with every thrust, and I grab her hips like she's the last real thing in a world gone cold.

She doesn't cry out, not really. But her head falls back, and her eyes flutter shut, and I know she's with me—right here, in this moment, where everything hurts but at least we're hurting together.

When it's over, we collapse against each other. Our bodies damp with sweat, breaths ragged in the cold air. I rest my forehead against hers, my arms still around her like she'll vanish if I let go.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper. "Not this time."

She doesn't reply, but she doesn't move either. She stays right where she is—pressed against me, eyes closed, heart racing. It’s enough for now.

After, as we stood there catching our breath, my forehead pressed to hers, my arms holding her like she might disappear if I let go, she whispered the words that will haunt me until the day I die.

"I shouldn't love you," she said, her voice soft but certain. "But I do."

Five words. Simple. Devastating. A beginning and an ending wrapped into one confession.

I shouldn't love her. But I do.

She shouldn't love me. But she does.

And maybe—just maybe—that's enough to break whatever curse follows me. Maybe love isn't a death sentence but a reason to live. Maybe Ruslan was wrong about attachment being vulnerability. Maybe vulnerability is the only thing worth fighting for.

Or maybe we're both doomed, marked for death the moment our paths crossed. Maybe the men who took her, who killed my brother, will find us again. Maybe the ghosts of my past will claim her too.

But tonight, in this moment, with her heart beating against mine and her breath warm on my skin, I can't bring myself to care. For the first time since I found Ruslan dying, since I promised him I'd protect her, I feel something like peace.

I shouldn't love her. But I do.

And if that kills me—kills us both—then so be it.

At least we'll die having lived.