Chapter Twelve

“Are you sure it’s him?”

I stared at the still image on the screen—the grainy, colorless shot of my father bound to a chair, looking beaten and hollow. I’d seen him tired before. Angry. Broken even. But never like that.

Jillian didn’t answer immediately. He studied the video frame by frame, jaw clenched, blue eyes cold.

“I’m sure,” he finally said.

My breath caught in my throat. “He looked… scared.”

Jillian shifted his gaze to me. “They wanted us to see that.”

“Who sent it?”

He tapped the side of the screen. “Encrypted. But sloppy. We’re close to tracking the source. It’s not Alyssa, not directly. Someone’s acting for her—or trying to make it look that way.”

I paced the floor, arms wrapped around my body. “What do they want from us?”

“You,” he said without hesitation. “They want you rattled. Scared. Distracted.”

“Well, they’ve succeeded,” I muttered bitterly.

Jillian rose from his seat and came to stand in front of me. “Don’t let fear control you. You’re stronger than that.”

I wanted to believe him. I really did. But the image of my father—bloodied and tied up—was burned into the backs of my eyelids.

I looked up at Jillian. “Will you save him?”

“I’ll do more than that.” His voice turned dark. “I’ll make sure whoever touched him regrets ever breathing.”

There was something terrifyingly beautiful about how serious he looked. He wasn’t making a promise out of pity—he was declaring war.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly.

I blinked. “Where?”

“Training room.”

“Jillian, I’m not in the mood—”

“You want to help him? Then you need to be able to protect yourself.”

I paused, then nodded.

The training room was massive—all black floors, weapons neatly arranged on the walls, and the faint scent of sweat and leather hanging in the air.

“I don’t know how to fight,” I admitted as I stood awkwardly near the center.

“That’s the point.” He threw me a pair of gloves. “We’ll start small.”

I pulled the gloves on, still feeling out of place. “You’re not going to, like… hit me, right?”

“No,” he said, a sly grin forming. “Not unless you ask nicely.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled.

He walked behind me, his arms slipping around mine as he adjusted my stance. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Chin down. Hands up.”

His voice was in my ear, low and calm.

“Like this?” I asked.

“Better.” His hands lingered on my waist for a moment too long before he stepped back. “Now punch.”

I punched.

The sound was pitiful.

“Okay… again,” he said, trying not to laugh.

I tried again. Harder.

He nodded. “That’s more like it.”

After several rounds of punches, elbows, and awkward footwork, I was sweaty, sore, and surprisingly… lighter. I hadn’t thought about the video in minutes.

“You’re not bad,” Jillian said, handing me a water bottle.

I took it with a raised brow. “You mean I don’t completely suck?”

“Pretty much.”

He walked over to the weapons wall and picked up two small blades, twirling one between his fingers before handing it to me. “Now let’s talk about knives.”

My eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

He gave me a crooked smile. “Would I joke about weapons?”

“Yes.”

He ignored that and showed me the basics—how to hold it, how to disarm an opponent, how to stab without hesitation.

I couldn’t help but laugh when I almost dropped it mid-spin.

“I thought this was supposed to make me feel better,” I said, breathless.

“It will,” he replied, wiping a strand of hair off my cheek with the back of his hand. “Fear goes quiet when you learn how to kill it.”

That line. That line.

It stuck in my chest like the knife in my hand.

“Do you always speak in poetry when someone’s panicking?”

He smirked. “Only with you.”

And just like that, the world outside faded again. It was just us—two people caught between fear and fire, unsure where the danger began and where the desire ended.

I set the knife down. “I need a shower.”

Jillian stepped closer. “Want company?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You offering to help me scrub my back?”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

God, the way he looked at me—like he was still trying to convince himself this was real. Like he didn’t fully trust the way his hands wanted to reach for mine. And yet, he did.

I didn’t need to ask.

I just walked away—slowly—making sure he was watching.

Later that night, curled up in bed, my muscles aching in a strangely satisfying way, I stared at the ceiling.

Everything was changing.

Falling into place… or falling apart.

I wasn’t sure which yet.

There was a knock on my door.

I sat up. “Yes?”

The door creaked open, and Jillian walked in holding a small black folder.

“What’s that?” I asked, patting the space beside me.

He sat down, his weight dipping the mattress. “Proof.”

He opened the folder and showed me a map, digital stills, and a list of recent IP addresses connected to the leaked video.

My eyes scanned the documents quickly.

“Wait,” I said, pointing. “That name—Reuben Grant. Isn’t he Alyssa’s uncle?”

Jillian nodded. “And the one person she trusts to clean up her messes.”

“So, he’s the one holding my father?”

“We’re close to confirming it.”

“And when we do?” I asked.

Jillian didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His eyes told me everything.

They would burn the whole city down if it meant getting my father back—and keeping me safe.

The next day, tension hung over the mansion like a storm cloud. Everyone was on edge. Even the usually unreadable Joseph Colbert looked uneasy.

“Christy,” he called out when I entered the hall.

“Yes, sir?”

He studied me. “You’ve grown a backbone.”

I blinked. “Thank you… I think?”

He smiled faintly. “That’s good. You’ll need it.”

I stepped closer. “Do you know what happened to my father?”

Joseph’s jaw tightened. “I know he’s being used to draw you out.”

“And Jillian?”

He glanced toward the hallway. “My son is reckless when he cares. Be careful with him.”

The honesty in his voice surprised me.

“I’m not here to hurt him,” I said softly.

“I know. But love isn’t always what saves us. Sometimes, it’s what destroys us.”

That sent a chill through me.

I didn’t answer.

Because I wasn’t sure I disagreed.

That night, Jillian stood by the balcony outside our room, staring out into the moonlit sky like it held all the answers.

I joined him, wrapping my arms around myself.

“You think they’ll kill him?” I asked.

“No,” he said without looking at me. “Not yet. He’s bait. They need him alive.”

I leaned into him. “Promise me we’ll get him back.”

“I promise.”

“And afterward?” I whispered. “What happens to us?”

He turned to face me.

The moonlight carved shadows across his face, but his eyes were crystal clear.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Would it be easier if you didn’t care?”

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped forward and took my face in his hands. “I don’t know when it happened. Maybe the night you flinched and still stood tall. Or when you kissed me like you meant it. But yes, Christy. I care.”

I let out a shaky breath.

Because that was the closest thing to love I’d ever heard from him.

And in that moment, I didn’t need anything else.

But just as our lips met again—soft, warm, hopeful—there was a loud crash downstairs.

Shouting.

Glass breaking.

Jillian snapped into focus.

He pulled away and ran to the door. “Stay here.”

“Jillian—!”

“I mean it, Christy. Lock the damn door. Don’t come out until I say.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the hallway, gun drawn.

I stared at the closed door.

My heart pounded in my chest.

Someone had breached the mansion.

And I had a feeling Alyssa wasn’t far behind.