His head inclined slightly toward Luke. “Mr. King.”
Luke’s shoulders squared, not in fear—in recognition. He met the man’s gaze evenly. A silent assessment. Not challenge. Not submission.
“Mr. Ruiz asked that I ensure you leave campus safely,” the man continued. “I’ll walk you to your vehicle.”
Not take me. Walk me. A choice. I glanced at Luke. His jaw was tight, but his nod was subtle and deliberate.
“You good?” he asked.
“I’m good.”
The three of us started toward the lot. The man didn’t hover. Didn’t crowd. He walked at my shoulder, close enough to be seen, far enough to respect space.
Every set of eyes followed. The message wasn’t subtle. We’re here. We’re visible. And we’re not afraid of being seen.
When we reached my car, the man stopped. His gaze swept the perimeter once before he stepped back, waiting for me to get in my vehicle. I opened the door, hesitating before getting in.
“If anything arises,” he said quietly, “call the number Mr. Ruiz gave you.”
“I will.”
He inclined his head once more then turned and walked back toward the waiting Mercedes.
Across the courtyard, Elise’s phone was no longer angled casually. She was typing. Fast. For the first time since this began, she didn’t look in control.
Luke’s fingers brushed mine as I unlocked the door. “You still with me?” he asked softly.
“Always.”
He leaned in just enough that his forehead almost brushed mine. Not for show. For grounding.
The armored sedan remained idling beyond the gates, waiting for me. Protection didn’t erase the war. It just changed the playing field.
We stood there together, watching the first visible ripple of Edwardo’s plan move through Blackwood Academy.
I had no idea what Edwardo’s stepbrother Dominick Ferraro looked like. But I didn’t need to. The presence alone shifted the ground beneath our feet.
As I started my car and Luke stepped back, I understood something clearly for the first time. Fear had driven me for weeks. Today, resolve took its place.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUKE
By the time Mila and I’d reached the academy steps the next morning, the tension for the night before hadn’t faded. Her hand curled into the front of my shirt, fingers hooked in the fabric just above my belt as if she’d anchored herself there without thinking.
I let her.
Her shoulder pressed against my chest, my palm warm at the small of her back beneath her sweater. My thumb moved in slow, steady arcs, not drawing attention. Just keeping her here.
Students passed us on the steps in loose waves—laughter, locker doors slamming inside, someone arguing about a quiz—but the noise blurred at the edges.
Her breathing steadied first.
She tipped her face up slightly, not enough to look at me, just enough that I could see the faint tension between her brows.
“You’re in your head,” she murmured.
I adjusted my stance automatically, angling my body so anyone coming down the steps had to look at me before they looked at her.