Chapter 4: Rowan

The numbers on the tablet are clean, logical, and entirely devoid of emotion. That is why I like them. Algorithmic forecasting models don’t have a fragile ego. They certainly don’t call you at midnight to remind you that your older brother has just successfully resected a glioblastoma while you are merely "playing with spreadsheets."

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, ignoring the faint vibration of my phone in my breast pocket. It is my father. Again. Probably calling to recount the exact details of Julian’s celebratory dinner. The dinner I skipped because a room full of arrogant neurosurgeons is a special kind of hell I lack the patience for tonight.

Instead, I sit on my barstool in the dim, leather-scented quiet of the financial district’s most discreet lounge, nursing a neat bourbon. It is supposed to be an escape.

Until the air shifts right next to my stool.

Two women step up to the very corner of the mahogany bar counter, right in my peripheral vision. One, a brunette is a whirlwind of sharp, protective energy with talking a mile a minute.

The other—curvy with long brown curls —is completely silent.

"Stay right here in this corner," the brunette instructs, her eyes scanning the packed, dimly lit lounge. "The bar is a circus and you look like you're about to faint. I'm going to find the floor manager and bribe him to give us a private booth away from all these loud finance bros. Don't move an inch."

The brown-haired one just nods, a hollow, fragile movement. "I won't," she whispers, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter.

The brunette disappears into the crowd, leaving her companion completely exposed at the corner of the bar. I try to look back down at my tablet, but my brain keeps tracking her. Her hands are gripping the dark wood so hard her knuckles are white. She looks like she’s trying to disappear into her own shoulders.

Then, the heavy glass front doors of the lounge swing open across the room.

A gust of rainy wind sweeps into the foyer, bringing with it a loud, high-pitched laugh that cuts right through the low jazz music.

I glance toward the entrance. A couple is walking in. The woman is a perfectly styled blonde shaking rain off her coat, laughing up at the preppy-looking man holding a massive umbrella over her head. He has his hand resting casually, possessively, on the small of her back.

I wouldn't have thought twice about them, except for the sudden, agonizing hitch in the breath of the girl standing right next to me.

I look back at her. Every drop of color has completely drained from her face. Her eyes are wide, fractured with a devastating, paralyzing shock as she stares across the open floor at the couple by the door. Her chest starts heaving in shallow, useless hyperventilations. Her fingers shake so violently against the wood that her fingernails literally scrape the mahogany.

Whatever connection exists between those three people, it isn’t good.

Across the room, Preppy Guy whispers something into the blonde's ear.

The brown-haired girl’s fingers scrape against the bar.

I watch her knees soften.

Great.

She’s going to pass out.

I stare at her for another second.

Then I set my tablet down.

Because apparently my evening is no longer my own.

I slide off my barstool, moving with deliberate, unhurried precision. I step directly into the narrow space between her and the rest of the lounge, positioning my broad frame to completely cut off her view of the entrance. I crowd her slightly, trapping her safely between the rigid edge of the bar counter behind her and my chest in front of her.

She blinks, her grassy-green gaze forced to snap away from the doors and look up, meeting mine behind my glasses.

I lower my voice into the deep, absolute register I reserve for the rare moments I allow myself to command.

"Breathe with me."

The ringing in her ears must be deafening because she just stares at my tie like I'm a specter.

"In for four, out for four. Come on," I murmur, my tone laced with a quiet, undeniable authority that traps her attention right here. "Match my pace, darling."

Her eyelids flutter open, blinking past a sudden, heavy film of tears. She looks at me, her gaze desperate and searching.

"Inhale," I command softly, locking my dark eyes onto hers, giving her a single, unwavering point of gravity to hold onto. I let my hand rest on the bar, just a fraction of an inch from her trembling fingers—close enough to offer my warmth, but strictly respecting the boundary. "Hold it. Now let it out. Good girl."

The praise falls out of my lips reflexively. A physical shudder runs through her entire body. The frantic rising and falling of her chest instantly slows. The chaotic, trembling rhythm of her breath hitches, catching on the sudden, authoritative weight of my words. Her pupils dilate slightly.

Interesting.

I wait, keeping my gaze anchored to hers until the worst of the tremors subside and her breath finally finds a steady, even cadence.

I slide my untouched glass of water directly into her line of sight.

"Drink this first," I say, my voice dropping lower, laced with a quiet, dominant finality that leaves no room for hesitation. "Your hands are still shaking."

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing as she stares at the glass, then up at me, assessing threats. She finally takes the glass with both hands and drinks, submitting completely to the instruction.

A dark, dangerous curl of satisfaction tightens in my gut.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her voice is raw and cracked.

I let out a slow breath, sliding my glasses up my nose as the intense, commanding aura I’d just wrapped around her softens. I offer her a quiet, slightly self-deprecating smile, trying to ease the sudden tension vibrating between us.

"That was a close call. You looked like you were about to drown," I say softly, watching the way the silk material of her dress catches the amber light of the lounge.

Before she can answer, a sharp shadow drops over the space behind me.

"Who the fuck are you, and why are you touching my friend?"

The tone is pure venom. I don't even have to turn around to know the brunette has returned from her mission, and she looks ready to draw blood.