Episode 19
Tracy's POV
The warehouse smelled of gunpowder and sweat, the air heavy with the metallic tang of blood.
It was quiet now — the kind of quiet that only comes when everyone who meant you harm is already on the floor.
Zane stood in the middle of it all, shoulders squared, breathing slow and measured like the fight had been nothing but a warm-up. His black shirt clung to his frame, slightly torn near the shoulder, and the low light caught on the faint gleam of the dagger in his hand before he sheathed it again.
Phil was dragging the last conscious man toward the far side of the room, muttering something about "getting answers," but my attention wasn't on Phil.
It was on Zane.
At first, I didn't notice the blood. It wasn't obvious — just a thin, dark smear trailing down the side of his arm. But then I saw the way his right sleeve stuck faintly to his skin, and the little drop that fell onto the dusty floor.
"You're bleeding," I said before I could stop myself.
Zane glanced down like I'd just told him it was raining. His mouth curved in that frustratingly calm way of his.
"It's nothing. Just a scratch."
"You call that a scratch?" I stepped closer, but he shifted back, pulling his sleeve down over the wound like that would erase it.
"Trace," he said in that low, warning tone, "I've walked away from worse without even flinching. This doesn't matter."
"Maybe it doesn't to you," I shot back, "but it matters to me."
His eyes flickered with something — surprise, maybe, or annoyance. "It's not worth your time."
"Too bad," I said, already moving toward the first aid kit near the wall. "Because I'm cleaning it whether you like it or not."
I expected him to block me again, but instead he stood there, watching me like I was doing something… unexpected.
"Sit," I ordered, pointing at the only intact chair left.
He raised an eyebrow. "You giving me orders now?"
"Yes. Sit down before I make you."
That got the faintest smirk out of him — but he sat.
I grabbed a clean cloth and some antiseptic from the kit, my heart doing a ridiculous little race as I stepped back into his space. His scent — faint smoke, leather, and something uniquely him — hit me instantly.
"Hold still," I murmured.
"Does it look like I'm moving?"
God, he made even sarcasm sound unfairly attractive.
I pressed the cloth gently to his arm. The cut wasn't deep, just a clean slice along the muscle like someone had gotten lucky in the middle of the fight. Still, the warmth of his skin under my fingers sent an unwanted jolt through me.
Zane watched me, silent now. Too silent. His gaze was intense, the kind of look that made you feel like he was stripping away every defense you had.
"Stop staring at me like that," I muttered without looking up.
"Like what?" His voice was soft but sharp.
"Like you're trying to figure me out."
"Maybe I am."
I swallowed, focusing on cleaning the wound even as my pulse betrayed me. "You're impossible."
"You're stubborn."
"And you're annoying."
"And yet," he said slowly, "you're still here."
The cloth slipped in my hand just a little, brushing over the edge of the cut. He didn't flinch.
"That didn't hurt?" I asked.
"Nothing hurts if you don't let it."
"That's not how the human body works," I said flatly.
"I'm not exactly normal, Trace."
I tied the bandage around his arm, my fingers brushing his skin more than necessary. It wasn't intentional. Not entirely.
His eyes followed every movement, and for a second, the air between us shifted — heavier, warmer, like gravity had decided to pull us toward each other.
"You done playing nurse?" he asked, though his voice had dropped lower.
"Done keeping you alive? Never," I shot back.
We stayed there for a heartbeat too long, neither moving. His hand twitched like he might reach for mine, but the sound of a door slamming broke the moment.
Phil stepped in, dragging the battered man he'd been interrogating. The guy's face was a mess, but the words he spat out were clear enough.
"She's worth more alive than dead. That's the order."
I froze.
Phil glanced at Zane. "Sir… he says Jake's the one who put the order out. Says the main organization wants the girl delivered alive."
Zane's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed controlled. "And?"
"And Jake's been one step ahead of us. Knows we're tracking him. He's covering his trail."
Zane's eyes darkened. "Get him to talk. Use whatever you need."
Phil dragged the man back out without another word.
I stared at Zane. "Jake? The same Jake you said was dangerous?"
His gaze cut to mine, unreadable. "You don't need to worry about him."
"The hell I don't!" I stepped closer, anger burning through my chest. "You keep treating me like some kid who can't handle the truth. What's the point of protecting me if you won't tell me from what?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached out — and caught my wrist before I could turn away.
I should've pulled back. I didn't.
We were too close now. My heart thudded hard enough I was sure he could hear it. His eyes dropped to my mouth for the briefest second before he let go, turning away sharply.
"Go to bed, Trace," he said, voice low. "Tomorrow we move."
I wanted to yell at him, push him, demand the truth — but instead I walked toward the guest room. My hand was still tingling from where he'd held it.
Halfway down the hall, I heard his voice again — this time over the phone, quiet but cold.
"…Jake won't see her alive unless I decide it."
I froze.
I decided to myself I had to find out the reason Zane was helping me
I could feel our connection but he could just be messing with me till the reason he decided to go rouge for me would be accomplished
then maybe he'll not care anymore..
maybe I'd be less relevant
he didn't seem like a person to care for someone like me.
where did I get my fantasies from?