The next afternoon, Caroline sat in the back of a cab, staring blankly out the window. The pale sunlight filtered through the glass towers of the financial district, doing nothing to warm her. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of pain through her bruised ribs, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow, numb feeling in her chest.

She reached up and touched the gauze on her neck. The cut throbbed beneath the bandage. She had cleaned up as best she could the night before, washing the blood off her skin and trying to smooth down her tangled hair. But she still looked like a wreck. Her eyes were hollow, her face pale, and no amount of cold water could erase the shadows under her eyes.

She had barely slept in two days. The adrenaline crash had left her shaky and drained, making her limbs feel heavy and her brain foggy.

The cab pulled up in front of a sleek, modern building in the financial district. Caroline paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The cafe was on the ground floor, a trendy spot with exposed brick and expensive coffee.

She pushed open the glass door, the bell chiming overhead. The smell of roasted beans and pastry filled the air. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, blood-scented air of the hospital.

She spotted Preston immediately. He was sitting at a table near the window, surrounded by three other men in identical suits. They were all laughing, their ties loosened, drinks in hand.

Caroline walked over, her feet dragging. She felt like she was moving through water.

"Ah, the wanderer returns," Preston announced as she approached. He didn't stand up. He didn't pull out a chair. He just gestured to the empty seat across from him with his coffee cup. "Gentlemen, this is the nurse I was telling you about. The one with the commitment issues."

His friends snickered, eyeing Caroline with a mix of curiosity and disdain.

Caroline sat down. The chair was hard, the seat uncomfortable. She looked at Preston, waiting for him to say something.

"Well?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you have something to say to me?"

"I'm sorry," Caroline said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "For leaving the other night."

"Yes, you are," Preston said, leaning back in his chair. "You know, Caroline, I had to pay the bill. The whole bill. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was for me?"

"I left money," Caroline said, her voice flat.

"Fifty dollars," Preston scoffed. "That barely covered your drinks. I had to cover the rest. And the tip." He shook his head. "It's fine. I should have known better than to date a girl who works for tips."

One of his friends snorted. "Maybe she can take your blood pressure, Preston. You look a little stressed."

"Very funny," Preston said, but he was smiling. He turned back to Caroline. "So, what's the excuse today? Or are you just going to fall asleep at the table again?"

Caroline blinked. "What?"

"You heard me," Preston said, his smile fading. "You've been yawning since you sat down. It's rude. I'm trying to have a conversation with you, and you're acting like you'd rather be somewhere else."

Caroline rubbed her eyes. She was so tired. The noise in the cafe was too loud, the lights too bright. She just wanted to close her eyes for a second.

"Maybe we should do this another time," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"No," Preston said, slamming his hand on the table. The coffee cups rattled. "We do this now. You wanted a second chance, you got it. The least you can do is pretend to be interested."

Caroline stared at him. He was serious. He actually thought his little coffee date was more important than whatever she was going through.

"I was attacked yesterday," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Preston paused. "What?"

"At the hospital," Caroline continued, her voice hollow. "A man tried to kill my patient. He held a scalpel to my throat. I was pushed down a flight of stairs."

The table went silent. Preston's friends exchanged uncomfortable glances. Preston stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

Then he laughed.

It was a short, sharp sound, completely devoid of humor. "Wow," he said, shaking his head. "That's a new one. I've heard some crazy excuses to get out of a date, but 'I was pushed down the stairs'? That's creative, Caroline. Really."

"It's not an excuse," Caroline said, her hands clenching into fists under the table. "It's the truth."

"Sure it is," Preston said, rolling his eyes. "And I'm the President. Look, if you didn't want to see me, you could have just said so. You didn't have to invent some ridiculous story."

"It's not ridiculous," Caroline insisted. She reached up and pulled the gauze off her neck, revealing the angry red cut and the bruise that had formed around it. "Look."

Preston's eyes flicked to her neck. For a second, he looked taken aback. Then his expression hardened. "That could be from anything. You probably just scratched yourself shaving." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hiss. "I'm not an idiot, Caroline. Don't treat me like one."

Caroline stared at him. She had never hated anyone more in her entire life. She had just shown him a wound from a near-death experience, and he was calling her a liar.

She was done.

She stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You're right, Preston. You're not an idiot. You're just a narcissistic, self-centered jerk who can't see past his own ego."

Preston's face turned red. "How dare you-"

"No, how dare you," Caroline shot back. "I came here because my mother made me. I apologized because I was trying to keep the peace. But I am done. I am done pretending that you are anything other than a spoiled child in an expensive suit."

She turned to walk away, but Preston grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her skin.

"You're not going anywhere," he snarled. "Not until I say we're done."

"Let go of me," Caroline said, trying to pull her arm free. His grip was tight, bruising.

"Hey!"

The voice was like a gunshot. It cut through the noise of the cafe, silencing everyone.

Caroline turned. Jarrod Romero was standing in the doorway. He was wearing civilian clothes-dark jeans and a black sweater-but he looked more intimidating than he had in uniform. His face was pale, his jaw set in a hard line, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead despite the cafe's air conditioning. His right arm was in a heavy black sling, held tight against his chest. He walked toward them, his stride purposeful. The crowd parted for him, people shrinking back from the raw power radiating off him.

Preston dropped Caroline's arm, stepping back. "Who the hell are you?"

Romero ignored him. He stopped in front of Caroline, his gray eyes sweeping over her face, then down to her arm where Preston had grabbed her. A red mark was already forming on her skin.

He looked back at Preston. The look in his eyes was lethal.

"Take your hands off her," Romero said, his voice quiet and deadly. "Or I will remove them for you."

Preston paled, but he tried to bluster. "This is a private conversation, man. Back off."

Romero took a step forward, getting into Preston's space. He was a full head taller, and he used every inch of that height to loom over the other man. "I don't repeat myself."

Preston swallowed hard. He looked at Romero's sling, then at the cold fury in his eyes, and seemed to decide that his pride wasn't worth a broken bone. He took a step back, raising his hands in surrender.

"Whatever, man. She's not worth it anyway." He turned to his friends. "Let's get out of here."

They scrambled to gather their things, eager to escape the tension. Preston shot Caroline one last, venomous look before storming out of the cafe.

Caroline stood there, her heart pounding. She looked up at Romero, completely at a loss for words.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

He didn't answer immediately. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and slapped it on the table.

"For the coffee," he said. Then he turned and walked toward the door, pausing to look back at her. "Come on."

Caroline hesitated for only a second. Then she followed him out into the night.

The cold air hit Caroline like a slap in the face. She stood on the sidewalk, shivering, watching as Jarrod Romero walked toward a black SUV parked at the curb. He moved stiffly, his injured arm held tight against his body, but he still moved like a man who owned the world.

He stopped at the car and turned back to look at her. "Get in."

Caroline blinked. "What?"

"Get in the car, Caroline." His voice was calm, but it wasn't a request.

She didn't move. "Why? Where are we going?"

He sighed, a sound of pure frustration. He walked back toward her, stopping just a few inches away. He was so tall she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Up close, she could see the exhaustion etched into his features, the tight lines of pain around his mouth.

"I am not in the mood for games," he said, his voice low. "You just had a scalpel at your throat. You were pushed down a flight of stairs. And now you were assaulted in a public place by a man your mother forced you to date. Am I correct?"

Caroline flinched at the accuracy of his summary. "How do you know about my mother?"

"I know everything I need to know," he said, his gaze piercing. "You are a liability to yourself right now. You are exhausted, you are injured, and you are making poor decisions. So I am making the next one for you. Get in the car."

Caroline's pride bristled. "I don't need a babysitter, Colonel. I'm fine."

"You are not fine," he said, his voice hardening. "You are one bad decision away from getting yourself killed. Or worse, married to that idiot."

The mention of marriage struck a nerve. Caroline's eyes stung. She looked away, blinking rapidly.

"I can't go home," she whispered. "Not like this. My mother will just... she won't understand. She'll say I provoked him. She'll say I ruined it."

Romero was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, though no less commanding. "Then don't go home. Come with me."

Caroline looked up at him, startled. "Where?"

"To somewhere safe. Where you can sleep, and eat, and not have to worry about who is going to attack you next." He held out his hand-his left hand, since his right was in the sling. "Trust me."

Caroline stared at his hand. It was a large hand, calloused and strong. She thought about the last twenty-four hours. The assassin, the fall, the way he had wrapped his body around hers to protect her from the stairs. He had gotten hurt because of her. He had defended her against Cromwell, and against Preston.

He was the only person in her life right now who wasn't trying to control her or use her. He was just trying to keep her safe.

She reached out and took his hand.

His fingers closed around hers, warm and solid. He led her to the SUV, opening the back door for her. She slid inside, the leather seats cool against her skin.

He walked around to the other side and got in, wincing slightly as he settled into the seat. The driver, K.C. Bell, didn't say a word. He just put the car in gear and pulled into traffic.

They drove in silence for a while. Caroline stared out the window, watching the city lights slide past. The car was warm and quiet, and despite everything, she felt her eyelids growing heavy.

"Where are we going?" she asked again, her voice sleepy.

"My place," Romero said.

Caroline's eyes snapped open. "Your place?"

"It's secure," he said, not looking at her. "It has a security system, and my team is nearby. You will be safe there."

"I don't know if that's appropriate," she said, though she didn't move to stop the car.

Romero finally turned his head to look at her. His gray eyes were unreadable in the dim light of the car. "Neither is getting your throat slit. But here we are."

Caroline opened her mouth to argue, but the words wouldn't come. She was too tired. Too broken. She just didn't have the energy to fight him anymore.

"Okay," she whispered.

He nodded and turned back to the window.

The car pulled into the underground garage of a luxury apartment building in the West End. Bell parked in a reserved spot near the elevator and got out to open the door for them.

Romero led Caroline to the elevator, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. It was a protective gesture, guiding her rather than pushing her.

They rode the elevator in silence. The doors opened directly into a penthouse apartment. It was sleek and modern, all glass and steel, with a stunning view of the city skyline. But it was also sparse, almost sterile. There were no personal photos, no clutter. It looked like a place where someone slept, not where someone lived.

"Sit," Romero said, gesturing to the sofa.

Caroline sat down, sinking into the soft leather. He walked into the kitchen, moving one-handed, and came back a minute later with a glass of water and a sandwich on a plate.

"Eat," he said, setting the plate on the coffee table in front of her.

Caroline looked at the sandwich. Turkey and cheese on whole wheat. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She picked it up and took a bite, her stomach growling in response.

Romero sat down in the armchair across from her, watching her eat. He didn't say anything, but his presence was a solid, reassuring weight in the room.

When she was finished, she set the plate aside and took a long drink of water. The food and the warmth were making her even sleepier. She leaned her head back against the cushions, her eyes drifting shut.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For everything."

"You don't need to thank me," he said, his voice rough.

"Why did you do it?" she asked, not opening her eyes. "Why did you jump? You could have been killed."

There was a long pause. She heard him shift in his chair, a soft hiss of pain escaping his lips.

"I told you," he said finally. "I protect what's mine."

Caroline's eyes opened. She looked at him, confused. "I'm not yours, Colonel. I'm just a nurse."

He met her gaze, his eyes intense. "You are under my command. You are under my protection. That makes you mine."

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Caroline felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"I don't understand you," she whispered.

"You're not supposed to," he said. He stood up, wincing again. "The guest room is down the hall, second door on the left. There are clothes in the dresser you can sleep in. The bathroom is fully stocked."

He turned and walked toward the master bedroom, pausing at the door. "Lock the door. And don't leave this apartment without me."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Caroline sat on the couch for a long time, staring at the closed door. Her mind was racing, but her body was shutting down. She finally forced herself to get up and walk down the hall.

The guest room was as impersonal as the rest of the apartment, but the bed was soft and the sheets were clean. She changed into a pair of oversized t-shirt and sweatpants she found in the dresser, washed her face, and crawled under the covers.

She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. She thought about the assassin, about Preston, about her mother. She thought about Jarrod Romero and his cryptic words.

"You are mine."

She didn't know what that meant. But as she finally drifted off to sleep, she couldn't deny the tiny spark of warmth that had ignited in her chest. For the first time in years, she felt safe.

Caroline woke up to the smell of coffee.

She lay in bed for a moment, disoriented. The room was bright with morning light, and the sheets were soft. For a second, she didn't remember where she was.

Then it all came rushing back. The attack, the fall, the cafe, the Colonel.

She sat up, her heart racing. She looked around the room. It was the same impersonal guest room. She was still wearing the borrowed sweatpants and t-shirt.

She got out of bed and padded down the hall. The apartment was quiet. The living room was empty, the blanket she had used the night before folded neatly on the couch.

She walked into the kitchen. A pot of coffee was brewing on the counter, and a note was propped up next to a mug.

Had to go to the Pentagon. Make yourself at home. K.C. is downstairs. - J.

Caroline stared at the note. It was written in a sharp, angular script. She ran her finger over the 'J', a strange feeling fluttering in her stomach.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen island. The apartment felt different in the daylight. Less sterile, more like a fortress. She could see the security cameras mounted in the corners, the reinforced glass on the windows.

She sipped her coffee, her mind wandering. She needed to go home. She needed to go to work. She needed to face her mother.

But she didn't want to.

She wanted to stay here, in this quiet, safe bubble, where no one could yell at her or try to kill her.

Her phone buzzed. She had left it in her purse by the door. She walked over and dug it out.

Twelve missed calls from her mother. Three from Brenna. And a text from an unknown number.

This isn't over, Caroline. You can't hide forever.

Caroline's blood ran cold. It was Preston's number. She had given it to him when they exchanged contacts before the first date.

She deleted the text and blocked the number, her hands shaking. She couldn't deal with him right now.

She called Brenna.

"Caroline! Oh my god, are you okay? I've been calling you all morning!"

"I'm fine," Caroline said, though her voice was hollow. "I'm... staying at a friend's place."

"A friend? What friend? I thought you were going home."

"I didn't go home," Caroline admitted. "I ran into Colonel Romero. He... he brought me to his place."

The line was silent for a full five seconds. Then Brenna let out a squeal so loud Caroline had to pull the phone away from her ear.

"He took you home?! Oh my god, Caroline! That's huge! That's like, romance novel huge!"

"It's not like that," Caroline said, her cheeks flushing. "He was just being protective. He said I was under his command."

"Under his command," Brenna repeated, her voice dripping with innuendo. "I bet he did. So, what's his place like? Is it a bachelor pad? Does he have a hot tub?"

"It's a fortress," Caroline said, looking around at the security cameras. "And there's no hot tub. Just a lot of guns."

"Even better," Brenna said. "When are you going back to work?"

"I don't know," Caroline said. "I need to talk to Cromwell. He was pretty mad yesterday."

"Screw Cromwell," Brenna said. "Romero put him in his place. You should have seen him, Caroline. He looked like he was going to rip Cromwell's head off."

Caroline felt a small smile tug at her lips. "He did look pretty scary."

"Scary hot," Brenna corrected. "Okay, I have to go. Call me later with all the details!"

Caroline hung up and poured another cup of coffee. She took a shower, washing off the grime and the fear of the last two days. She put her own clothes back on, since the borrowed ones were too big, and sat down on the couch to wait.

She didn't have to wait long. At noon, the front door beeped and Jarrod Romero walked in.

He looked slightly better than the night before. He had shaved, and his hair was damp. But his arm was still in the sling, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

He stopped when he saw her sitting on the couch. "You're still here."

"You told me not to leave," she said, standing up. "I didn't want to get shot by your security team."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It was gone in an instant. "We need to talk."

Caroline's stomach clenched. "About what?"

He walked past her into the kitchen, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge with his good hand. "About your situation."

"My situation?"

He turned to face her, his expression serious. "You have a target on your back, Caroline. The man who attacked you is still at large. And he knows what you look like. He knows where you work. Lieutenant Petersen is the key witness from Operation Atlas, which dismantled a major domestic terror cell. That's why he's a target, and because you were there, because you've seen the assassin's face, you're a target, too."

Caroline felt the blood drain from her face. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you can't go back to your life. Not right now. Your apartment is not secure. Your hospital is compromised. And your family..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "Your family is a liability."

The words stung, but she knew he was right. Her mother would invite the killer in for tea if she thought it would land Caroline a rich husband.

"So what do I do?" she asked, her voice small.

Romero set the water bottle down and took a step toward her. "You stay here. With me."

Caroline stared at him. "Here? With you?"

"It's the only safe place," he said. "I can protect you here."

"For how long?" she asked. "I can't just hide in your apartment forever."

"No," he agreed. "You can't. Which is why I have a more permanent solution."

Caroline's heart started to pound. "What kind of solution?"

He met her eyes, his gaze steady. "Before we proceed, I need to create a maximum security protection file for you. That requires your full legal name, date of birth, social security number... I need your driver's license."

Numbly, Caroline retrieved her purse and handed him her license. He took a quick, clear photo of it with his phone. "Thank you," he said, his expression unreadable as he handed it back.

He looked at her, his gray eyes intense. "A legal one. One that will give you my name, my protection, and the resources of the entire United States military behind you."

Caroline's breath caught in her throat. "Are you... are you asking me to marry you?"

"I'm not asking," he said, his voice firm. "I'm telling you. It's the only way, Caroline. If you are my wife, you are a military dependent. You have access to bases, to hospitals, to security details. No one will be able to touch you."

Caroline felt like the floor had dropped out from under her. "This is crazy. We barely know each other."

"We know enough," he said. "I know you are brave. I know you are loyal. And I know you need help."

"That doesn't mean I should marry you," she said, shaking her head. "Marriage is supposed to be about... about love."

"Love is a luxury," Romero said, his voice hard. "Survival is a necessity. I am offering you survival, Caroline. Take it."

Caroline looked at him, standing there in his kitchen with his arm in a sling and his eyes like steel. He was offering her a way out. A way to escape her mother, her stalker, her dead-end life.

It was insane. It was reckless. It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.

But she was so tired of being afraid.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'll do it."

Romero nodded, his expression unreadable. "Pack your things. We're going to the courthouse."