Chapter 12

Clara's POV 

"Come here," Julian commanded softly, his deep voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated through the quiet alley.

I was too exhausted to fight. I was too completely shattered to care about propriety, or the fact that I was soaking wet and covered in dirt while he wore a suit that cost more than my old car. When his massive, warm hands wrapped securely around my upper arms, I simply let him lift my dead weight off the damp concrete.

He didn't hesitate for a fraction of a second. He pulled me directly into his broad chest, wrapping his heavy arms around my shaking shoulders, burying my dirty, tear-stained face right into the lapel of his expensive suit jacket.

He smelled of cedar, dark musk, expensive wool, and absolute, unshakeable power.

He guided my trembling frame into the cavernous, leather-scented back seat of the Maybach, sliding in right beside me and pulling the heavy door shut. The thick glass sealed out the stench of the alley, the cold drizzle, and the crushing cruelty of the world outside. It was completely, blissfully silent inside the car.

Julian reached for a hidden side compartment, pulling out a chilled glass bottle of mineral water. He unscrewed the cap with one hand and pressed the cold glass gently into my trembling fingers.

"Drink, Clara," he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet, fierce authority.

I lifted the bottle to my lips with shaking hands and took a small sip, choking slightly as the water hit my raw, swollen throat. Julian reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pristine, folded white silk handkerchief, and leaned close. With painstaking gentleness, he began to wipe a smear of street dirt and wet mascara from my cheekbone.

His touch was so light, so astonishingly tender compared to the rough shoves I was used to at home, that a fresh wave of quiet tears spilled over my lower lashes.

"He... he was with... there was a woman..." I tried to force the words past my lips, but my voice broke into a jagged, embarrassing sob.

"Shh," Julian whispered. He slid his large, warm hand around to the back of my neck, his thumb lightly stroking the damp hairline at the base of my skull. "You do not need to speak, Clara. You do not need to explain anything to me. You are far too precious to be sitting in filthy alleys crying over a man who lacks the intelligence to realize he is holding a diamond."

I leaned into the firm pressure of his hand, entirely starved for human comfort, starved for anyone to look at me like I possessed value. I closed my eyes, letting the smooth, deep purr of the car's engine ground my shattered nerves.

"Take us to the estate, Victor," Julian said to the driver, his tone instantly shifting back to cold, clipped stone.

I was too drained, too hollowed out to protest. I let my heavy head rest against the soft leather seat, Julian’s hand remaining warm, steady, and protective on the back of my neck. He shifted his weight beside me, reaching across my body to pull the shoulder belt across my chest.

As he leaned close, his mouth hovering just inches from the shell of my ear, he let out a soft, dark sigh.

"I'll have my security team retrieve your car from the public garage on 4th Street, Clara," he whispered, clicking the metal buckle into place with a sharp snap. "And do not worry about the hotel. Room 412 was always a cursed number anyway."

My blood instantly turned to pure ice water in my veins.

The car’s engine revved as we pulled out into traffic, but the sound faded into a dull, distant buzz. I stopped crying instantly, my eyes snapping wide open in the dim interior of the car to stare blindly at the dark tinted glass of the window.

Room 412.

I hadn't told him why I was at the Grand Pearl. I hadn't said a single word about Mark, the blonde woman, or the floor they had gone to. I hadn't even uttered the number out loud.

So how in the hell did Julian Thorne know the exact room

my husband was inside?