Chapter 4: WHO TF ARE YOU?

ROWAN

Numbers 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's my mother. Again. Calling, I'm sure, to remind me about Julian’s celebratory dinner. A dinner I plan on skipping because a room full of arrogant neurosurgeons is a special kind of hell I lack the patience for.

I just haven't gotten around to telling her that I won't be there. It'll break her heart, for sure, but she'll be the only one to miss me there.

I sit on my barstool in the dim, leather-scented quiet of the financial district’s most discreet lounge, nursing a scotch as I go through the stock market charts on my tablet.

After the shitty day I’ve had, this 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 with dark brown waves falling down her back, the other with sharp, raven-black hair.

The raven-haired one disappears into the crowd, leaving her companion at the bar.

I try to look back down at my tablet, but my brain keeps tracking the abandoned companion.

Maybe it has something to do with the way her hands are gripping the counter so hard that her knuckles turn white. She looks like she’s trying to disappear into her own shoulders.

I spare her a full glance. She's pretty, really pretty. And that green dress she's in is drawing a lot of male attention—mine included—but I doubt she notices.

I frown as her chest starts heaving in shallow, useless hyperventilations as she stares at something ahead. I know an epic meltdown when I see one.

I turn to see what she's looking at. It's nothing spectacular—just a boring-looking couple. But from the way she's acting, I can tell that there's some history between her and them. Obviously some relationship drama.

I wonder who the ex is. The man or the woman.

For the brunette's sake, I find myself preferring it be the woman. I know a manipulative bastard when I see one.

I watch the brunette's 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 and 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. "Match my pace, sweetheart."

Her eyelids flutter open, blinking past a 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 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 slips out before I can stop it—a quiet test to see if she'll take it.

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 signal the bartender for a glass of water.

I slide it over to her. "Drink this first. 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.

Before I can answer, a sharp voice says 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 raven-haired friend has returned from her mission, and she sounds ready to draw blood.