Page 21 of Jenna's Protector

“The best,” Carter agrees. “He’s been through a lot with me.”

“It must be nice having someone like that by your side.” I nod, feeling a little lighter.

“It is,” Carter says, his tone softening.

He smiles, and for a moment, the weight of the day ahead feels a little more bearable. As we pull into the station, I take a deep breath. There’s no way to sugarcoat this, but today is going to be hard.

We walk into the station, Carter leading the way with Max at his side. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow, and a little shiver runs down my spine. My heart pounds, and the walls close in as we approach a small room off the main corridor.

This is Carter’s space, and that makes it special. The first thing I notice is the contrast between his desk and everything else. The linoleum is cracked, and the furniture is a bit worn, but Carter’s desk is a study of brutal efficiency.

It’s immaculate. Every item has its place—the stapler is perfectly aligned, there’s a clean desk pad, and the pens are neatly stacked in a holder. There’s no dust. No clutter. It’s like a window into his mind, showing a level of care and precision that I haven’t seen before.

I point to the picture of Carter and another man who looks identical to him.

“I didn’t know you had a twin.”

“That’s my brother, Blake.” Carter looks at the photo and smiles. “He enlisted in the Navy when I went to the Police Academy. Blake’s a badass. Became a SEAL and now works for the same organization that Forest runs.”

“Wow,” I say, genuinely impressed. “That’s pretty amazing.”

“Yeah, he’s done well for himself.” He shrugs modestly. “We’re close, even if our paths took us in different directions.”

I nod, absorbing this new information about Carter. It makes me see him in a different light—not just as a man who comes to my café every day, but as someone with a complex and interesting life.

A sudden, sharp rap on the door makes me jump. A man in a worn tweed jacket steps in, the scent of charcoal and paper wafting in with him. His fingers are smudged black, and he clutches a drawing pad to his chest like a shield.

“Hi, I’m Joe Smith, the sketch artist,” he says with a polite nod, his voice softer than I expected.

Carter’s hand rests lightly on my shoulder. “Are you ready, Jenna?” His touch is warm and reassuring, but it can’t quell the anxiety churning in my stomach.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “Not in the slightest.” The words come out as a whisper. “But let’s do this.”

“Most people haven’t done this before, but don’t worry. I’ll talk you through the whole thing.” Joe’s kind smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s seen too much, I realize.

Like me.

Carter guides me to his desk chair. The leather is cool against my skin, starkly contrasting with the warmth spreading from where his hand brushed mine. The chair creaks as I settle in, the sound loud in the tense silence of the room.

Joe takes a seat across from me, the scratch of his chair legs against the linoleum floor setting my teeth on edge. Max flops down at my feet with a soft whine, his warm presence comforting.

Carter wheels in another chair, the high-pitched screech making me wince. He positions it next to mine, close enough that I can smell his aftershave—an oddly calming woodsy scent.

“We’re going to take it slow, okay?” Joe’s voice is gentle as he flips open his sketchpad. The crisp sound of a new page-turning feels like the start of something I can’t take back.

“What do you want? Who do you want?” I glance at Carter, suddenly unsure.

“What about the man who recruited you?” Carter’s brow furrows in thought.

“His name is Lucian Drake.” A chill runs down my spine at the mention of Lucian’s name. My fingers instinctively move to my wrist, rubbing at the invisible tattoo. I force myself to nod, my throat too tight for words.

“Whenever you’re ready, Jenna.” Joe’s pencil hovers over the paper, expectant. He leans forward, his kind eyes meeting mine. “Let’s start with the basic shape of his face. Was it round, oval, square?”

I close my eyes, letting the memory surface. A bustling mall fades into view, the scent of pretzels and perfume mingling in the air. I was seventeen, lost in the crowd when he appeared.

“Oval,” I say, opening my eyes. “But with a strong, defined jawline.”

Joe’s pencil scratches against the paper, the sound unnervingly similar to a knife scraping against a plate.