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Brock stood outside Elena’s apartment door, hand raised to knock, every instinct screaming at him that something was wrong. She’d asked to be alone. He should respect that. Should give her the space she’d requested, the distance she’d always maintained between them like a shield. But the look in her eyes down in that parking garage—he’d seen that look before.
Back when they’d found her in that alley, so far beyond terror that she’d stopped making sounds. That same hollow, desperate look that said the person inside was drowning and couldn’t figure out which way was up. Something was very, very wrong.
He knocked, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway. No answer. His heart rate kicked up.
“Elena?” He tried the handle. Locked.
The silence from inside felt ominous, heavy with unspoken disaster. He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear anything—movement, breathing, a voice telling him to go away.
Nothing.
Then he heard it.
A sound that made his blood run cold.
A sob. Muffled, broken, desperate.
“Elena!” He pounded on the door. “Open up!”
Nothing.
Brock took two steps back and kicked. The doorframe splintered but held. He kicked again. The lock gave way and the door burst open.
The sight that greeted him stopped him cold.
Elena on the floor, blood on her chin, blood on her hands. Her phone beside her, screen glowing with an image he couldn’t quite see from this angle.
“Oh, baby,” he said, dropping to his knees beside her. “You’re hurt. What happened?”
She was shaking, eyes unfocused. In shock.
“Take it easy,” he said gently. “Focus on breathing. In and out.”
He kept his gaze steady on hers until she got herself under control.
“I…I fell,” she finally managed.
“We can go with that for now.” He grabbed the throw blanket from the couch and covered her. “Elena, I need you to focus on me, okay?”
She nodded, teeth chattering.
“I’m going to have to touch you. Tell me when you’re ready.” His voice was impossibly gentle, each word measured. He kept his hands visible, his movements telegraphed, giving her every chance to refuse.
“I’m okay,” she stuttered, though they both knew it was a lie.
“No, baby, but you will be. Hold tight.” The endearment slipped out naturally, unconsciously, and something in her chest loosened at the sound of it.
He moved slowly, deliberately, sliding one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees. His touch was careful, reverent almost, as if she were made of something precious and breakable.
She felt the strength in him as he lifted her from the floor—the solid warmth of his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, the way his arms held her secure without crushing. For just a moment, she let herself relax into it, let herself be held by someone who’d never hurt her, who’d spent years proving she could trust him. He settled her in the chair, and she immediately missed the warmth of him.
He went to the kitchen, found a clean towel, dampened it. When he knelt in front of her, pressing the towel gently to her chin, he saw the phone on the floor.
The image on the screen.
A woman in a nun’s habit, tied to a chair, terror on her face.
His blood went cold.
