Chapter Two

The car ride passed in a blur of streetlights and shadows. I sat in the back seat, wrapped in someone's jacket that smelled of leather and faint lavender. My body still trembled with aftershocks of adrenaline. The man who'd saved me sat in the passenger seat, speaking in low tones to the driver.

I caught fragments of their conversation. "Clean extraction." "No casualties on our end." "The others scattered like rats."

"Good," my rescuer said,. "Make sure they don't come back. Send word to their employer that the Whiter girl is under Black Herd’s protection now."

Black Herd. I'd heard that name before, whispered in the circles my family moved in. They were the people you called when you needed something done and didn't ask questions about how. Fixers. Problem solvers. Dangerous people who operated in the shadows of Notch City's glittering facade.

And apparently, they'd decided I was worth saving.

I wanted to ask questions—who he was, why they'd come, how they'd known where to find me. But my throat felt raw, and exhaustion was beginning to settle into my bones like lead. Every part of me ached.

The car pulled up to a building that looked abandoned from the outside, crumbling brick facade, boarded windows, graffiti splashed across the walls. We were still in the industrial district, far from the glittering high-rises of central Notch City where people like me were supposed to be safe.

Where people like Jude were supposed to protect us.

My jaw clenched at the thought of him. The way he'd said Cassidy's name without hesitation. The way he'd cradled her. The way he'd walked away.

"We're here," the driver announced.

The man opened my door and offered his hand again. I took it, letting him help me out of the car. My legs wobbled, and he steadied me with a hand around my waist, his grip firm but surprisingly gentle.

"Easy," he murmured. "You're safe now."

That word again. Safe.

The door opened before we reached it, revealing a woman in her thirties with sharp eyes and black hair pulled into a tight bun. She took one look at me and her expression softened.

"Christ, Boss, what did they do to her?" she asked.

Boss. So the man who'd saved me wasn't just another soldier. He was the leader of Black Herd.

"Nothing fatal," he replied. "But she needs medical attention. Wrists are torn up, possible concussion, definitely in shock."

The woman nodded and gestured for us to follow. "Bring her to the medical room. I'll get supplies."

Inside, the building was nothing like its exterior suggested. The hallway was clean, well-lit, with industrial fixtures and polished concrete floors. We passed several rooms with closed doors, and I caught glimpses of other people, men and women in various states of dress, some in tactical gear, others in casual clothes. 

Everyone we passed nodded respectfully to the man beside me, some murmuring "Boss" as we walked by.

The medical room was small but well-equipped, with cabinets full of supplies, a hospital-style bed, and equipment that looked expensive. Professional. The woman, who introduced herself only as "Nina", immediately set to work.

The Boss stepped back, giving her space. He leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed, watching with dark eyes that missed nothing. Here, under the fluorescent lights, I could see him more clearly than I had on that rooftop.

He was tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders and a build that spoke of someone who knew how to handle himself in a fight. His black hair was slightly disheveled, and there was a cut above his left eyebrow that had bled down the side of his face. His knuckles were scraped raw. Despite the injuries, there was something refined about him, the way he carried himself, the expensive watch on his wrist that caught the light, the tailored fit of his tactical gear.

This wasn't a man who lived in abandoned warehouses. This was someone who chose to be here.

"This is going to sting," Nina warned before pressing an antiseptic-soaked gauze to the rope burns on my wrists.

I hissed through my teeth but didn't pull away. 

"You're lucky," she said, examining my head wound. "This looks worse than it is. Scalp wounds always bleed like crazy. No signs of serious concussion, but you'll need to rest and monitor for symptoms."

"Thank you," I managed, my voice hoarse.

Nina gave me a small smile. "Don't thank me. Thank the Boss." She nodded toward him. "He doesn't usually handle extractions personally anymore. You must have been important."

He shifted uncomfortably under Nina's pointed look but said nothing.

Nina stepped back. "You're all patched up. I'll get you some water and pain medication. You should rest here for a bit before…"

"She can rest in one of the guest rooms," the Boss interrupted. "I'll show her."

Nina raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. "Suit yourself. I'll bring the meds to her room."

He pushed off from the wall and gestured for me to follow. I slid off the medical bed, testing my legs. They held, though barely. Every step felt like I was walking on glass.

We moved through the hallway in silence. My mind raced with questions, but I couldn't seem to form the words. What do you say to someone who just saved your life? How do you process being abandoned by your fiancé and rescued by the leader of Notch City's most mysterious organization all in the same night?

He stopped in front of a door near the end of the hall. "This one's yours for tonight. Bathroom's attached, and there are clean clothes in the dresser if you need them. Someone will check on you in a few hours."

He opened the door to reveal a simple but clean room—a double bed with white linens, a small dresser, and a chair by the window. It looked like a sparse hotel room, functional and impersonal, but the sheets looked expensive.

"Thank you," I said again, because I didn't know what else to say. "For saving me. For... everything."

He nodded once, his expression unreadable. "Get some rest. You've had a rough night."

He turned to leave, and I watched him go, this stranger who'd pulled me back from the edge. As he walked away, I noticed the way he favored his left side, the slight stiffness in his movements.

He was hurt worse than he'd let on.