Chapter 2 Bullets and Screams

# Chapter 2: Bullets and Screams

The next week with Duke Hayden Thorne proved to be an exercise in patience. After our first confrontation, he seemed determined to break me through sheer aggravation. It started with small things—summoning me for "security concerns" at three in the morning that turned out to be nothing more than him wanting a specific brand of scotch from the cellar, or insisting I personally taste his food before each meal despite the estate having a professional food taster on staff.

I bore it all with practiced neutrality, which only seemed to frustrate him more.

"Don't you ever get angry?" he asked one evening, watching me from his armchair as I checked the room's perimeter.

"Would you prefer I did, Your Grace?" I kept my tone professional.

"I'd prefer you were human," he muttered, before throwing a folder at me. "I'm going out tonight. Make the arrangements."

The folder contained details of an underground boxing match in the warehouse district—exactly the sort of place a high-profile assassination would be perfect. I looked up to find him smirking.

"Problem, Ms. Reed? Too dangerous for you?"

I closed the folder. "I'll have the car ready at eight, sir."

The warehouse was exactly as I'd feared—packed with the city's wealthiest slumming it alongside actual criminals, minimal exits, poor lighting, and enough noise to mask a gunshot. I stayed close to Hayden as he greeted various associates, my hand never far from my concealed weapon.

"Loosen up," he said, leaning close enough that I could smell expensive cologne and whiskey on his breath. "You look like you're at a funeral."

"I'm trying to prevent yours," I replied quietly, scanning the crowd.

He laughed, a genuine sound that surprised me. "Come on. I've placed a bet on the next fight. Ten thousand on the underdog."

"That's unwise."

"That's the point."

Throughout the night, he drank, gambled, and socialized, all while keeping me within arm's reach—not for safety, I suspected, but to watch me squirm. The crowd pressed closer as the main event began, bodies jostling against us from all sides.

"See that man?" Hayden nodded toward a scar-faced individual across the ring. "Arms dealer. Supplied half the rebel factions in the eastern provinces."

I tensed. "Should I alert authorities?"

"What for? Tonight he's just another gambler." Hayden's eyes glittered with something like amusement. "You military types see everything so black and white."

"How did you—"

"Your posture. The way you scan rooms. Three tours, I'm guessing, before private security."

I kept my face neutral, unsettled by his accuracy. "Two tours. Then specialized training."

"Hmm." He studied me with new interest. "Maybe you're not entirely useless after all."

Two nights later, he tested me again at a charity gala. I wore a modified uniform—still black, but tailored to blend with the formal attire while maintaining functionality. Hayden was in his element, charming donors and flirting with socialites.

"Reed," he called from across the room, surrounded by admirers. "There's a limited-edition Cohiba cigar being offered in the west wing. Fetch me one."

The request was deliberately demeaning. Everyone knew it. I saw several guests exchange uncomfortable glances.

"Of course, Your Grace." I bowed slightly and departed.

The west wing was packed with people, requiring me to squeeze through crowds, apologize repeatedly, and endure knowing smirks from those who'd overheard his command. The cigar vendor had a long line. By the time I returned fifteen minutes later, I'd made a mental list of all the ways I could legally make the Duke regret this petty power play.

I found him cornered by three aggressive reporters, their voices rising as they waved recording devices in his face.

"—comment on the allegations about misappropriated royal funds?"

"—relationship with the actress caught leaving your estate at dawn—"

"—father's involvement in the mining scandal that—"

Hayden's face was rigid, his knuckles white around his champagne glass. I assessed the situation instantly—the reporters were drunk, belligerent, and blocking his exit path.

I moved forward smoothly. "Excuse me, gentlemen. The Duke has an appointment."

The largest reporter turned, alcohol fuming from his breath. "Back off, sweetheart. We're conducting an interview."

I smiled professionally. "I'm afraid I must insist."

When he put his hand on my shoulder to push me aside, muscle memory took over. One fluid movement redirected his momentum, twisted his wrist to the pain point, and left him gasping against the wall, my voice still pleasantly calm in his ear.

"The Duke is leaving now. You can schedule an official interview through proper channels."

The other reporters backed away. I guided Hayden through the parting crowd, maintaining a protective formation until we reached his limousine.

Once inside, he exhaled slowly. "That was... efficient."

"Just doing my job, sir."

His gaze lingered on my arms. "You're stronger than you look."

"Most people are."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "The cigar?"

I produced it from my inner pocket, perfectly intact.

"You actually got it." He sounded surprised.

"You actually doubted it?"

Our eyes met, and for a moment, something shifted between us—not quite respect, but perhaps a reassessment.

The next morning, I was reviewing security footage when Eliza informed me that MP Hale had arrived for another meeting. I took my position outside the study door, close enough to monitor but giving the appearance of privacy.

Their voices soon escalated.

"Your mother's documents remain sealed, as agreed," Hale was saying. "But there are questions being raised about—"

"Don't mention her!" The Duke's voice cracked like a whip. Something crashed—likely a glass or paperweight. "You have no right to speak her name after what happened."

"Be reasonable, Hayden. It's been twenty years—"

"Get out."

Moments later, MP Hale emerged, his face flushed with anger. He barely glanced at me as he stormed past.

That afternoon, Hayden emerged from his study looking drained.

"I need to visit the rose garden," he announced.

"I'll arrange the security detail—"

"No. Just you." His tone brooked no argument. "Five minutes."

The rose garden lay at the southern edge of the estate, enclosed by stone walls and wrought iron gates. According to Eliza, it had been designed by the previous Duchess herself—Hayden's mother—who had died when he was a child.

Spring had coaxed the early varieties into bloom, their fragrance heavy in the afternoon air. Hayden moved through the paths with practiced familiarity, stopping before a white marble bench beneath an arbor of climbing roses.

"She used to read to me here," he said quietly, not looking at me. "Before everything went to hell."

I remained silent, giving him the moment while scanning our surroundings. Something felt off—the garden was too exposed, the surrounding trees too dense, offering too many vantage points.

Movement caught my eye—a glint of metal from the tree line, three o'clock position. Training kicked in before conscious thought.

"Down!" I shouted, already moving.

The crack of a rifle shot split the air as I slammed into Hayden, taking him down behind the bench. Pain exploded across my back as the bullet found me instead of him.

More shots followed, peppering the marble. I dragged Hayden behind a stone planter, my body covering his, warm wetness spreading across my back.

"Stay down!" I ordered, drawing my sidearm despite the fire radiating through my shoulder blade.

Hayden's eyes were wide with shock, fixed on the blood now staining his hands—my blood. "You're hit," he said, voice strangely distant.

I activated my emergency transmitter. "Security breach, shots fired, south garden. Target secure, officer down. Sniper in the southern tree line."

Estate security responded immediately. I heard shouts, more gunfire, then the roar of engines as the attacker fled.

"Reed? Reed!" Hayden's voice seemed to echo from a tunnel. "Stay with me, damn it!"

I tried to maintain pressure on the wound, but my strength was fading. The pain began to dull—a bad sign. I felt Hayden's arms around me, shifting me carefully.

"Where's the medical team?" he was shouting, his voice unlike I'd ever heard it—raw, desperate. "Someone get help NOW!"

My vision began to blur. Through the haze, I saw his face above mine, all pretense stripped away, replaced by naked fear.

"Don't you dare die," he ordered, pressing his jacket against my wound. "That's a direct command, Reed."

A strange warmth spread through me, unrelated to the blood loss. His hands, usually so controlled, trembled against my skin.

"Who would have thought," I whispered, "you actually care."

His response was lost as darkness claimed me, but his final words echoed as consciousness faded:

"ANYONE WHO TOUCHES HER ANSWERS TO ME!"

The ferocity in his voice was the last thing I remembered before the world went black.