My heartbeat starts to slow back to normal, and I’m actually pretty proud of myself for holding it together…
Until my eyes move to the walls.
I’ve been so wrapped up in the damage littering the floor around me, I haven’t spared a glance at my paintings. So, I didn’t even notice the wreckage extends to the colorful canvases I spent the past half-decade pouring every bit of my heart and soul into.
A sound bursts from my throat as I fly into motion, rushing past the threshold into the disaster site that used to be my home.
“Gemma, wait!” Chase calls, but I don’t stop.
Glass crunches beneath my feet, and my hands tear at cushion foam and shredded wood as I cut a path through the wreckage. When I reach the far wall, where most of my paintings were, I fall to my knees, barely flinching as shards tear through my jeans and slice deeply into my flesh. That pain is nothing, compared to the ache inside my chest as my fingers trace the thick layers of oil on the ruined canvases before me.
The knife would’ve been enough to destroy them but whoever did this really went above and beyond, because in addition to the deep cuts rending the canvases in tatters, streaks of black spray paint cover many of the works. Words jump out at me, creating hate where art used to be.
BITCH
SLUT
WHORE
The blocky letters scream at me, their angry message unmistakable. It’s abruptly very clear this was no random robbery, no casual break-in. This was personal. Intentional.
Someone out there hates me this much.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. I want to cry — I feel like Ishouldbe crying — but I’m too shocked, too angry to feel any real sadness. Hands resting on my bleeding kneecaps, I don’t look away from my ruined works of art, even when I feel Chase’s heat at my back. I don’t protest when his arms slip around me, one hooking beneath my knees, the other going behind my shoulders, and he lifts me from the floor into his arms, cradling me against his chest like I’m something to be held close, something precious, somethingpriceless. I’m so numb at this moment, I don’t question it. I just turn my head into his neck and let his strong arms absorb my body’s relentless shakes.
***
Time passes.
I’m not sure how much — in fact, I only really notice because suddenly, we’re on the landing outside my apartment and Knox is there, his face set in a severe frown as he strides toward us and surveys the apartment with intent, angry eyes.
“No forced entry,” he says flatly.
Chase’s arms tighten around me. “Police are on their way.”
“I’ll talk to them. You get out of here, take care of her. I’ll check in later with an update.”
“Thanks.”
The men exchange nods, and then we’re moving again. My whole body bounces with Chase’s steps as he carries me down the flight of stairs, never breaking stride, as though my weight is barely worthy of consideration.
“I can walk,” I tell him, sounding shaky despite my best efforts.
He ignores me.
“Chase, put me down.”
“No.”
He sounds so pissed off, I decide not to fight him.
We push through the front doors just as two police cruisers pull to a stop outside my building. The officers nod to Chase as they climb from their vehicles, and before I know it, they’ve flanked us on all sides. It takes me a few seconds to realize they’re clearing a path from the doors to the curb, where the Porsche is parked, so the paparazzi can’t get close to us.
Evidently, Chase wasn’t exaggerating the cachet of the Croft name.
I’m back on my feet for the blink of an eye while he yanks open the passenger door, but before I can get my bearings, he’s scooped me up once more, settled my body on the seat, and closed me inside the car. I hear him thanking the officers, watch him stride around the front and slide into the driver’s seat. His door has barely slammed closed when the engine turns over and we peal away from the curb, leaving behind the wreckage of my old life.
I don’t look back.