Chapter 46 The Guard
Aiyana's P.O.V
I noticed him on the third day.
I still kept telling myself it was nothing, that living in Jerome Black’s house had rewired my instincts, everything felt like a threat if I stared at it long enough. Guards were everywhere. Always had been, and always would be, but this one was different.
He didn’t avert his eyes when I passed.
The others did, out of respect, out of fear, or simply because Jerome had made it painfully clear that staring at me was a fast way to lose something important.
This one, however, watched like he was counting my steps. Measuring. Waiting.
The first time our eyes met, he looked away too slowly.
The second time, he didn’t look away at all.
I had long unintentionally memorized the rhythm of the house: guard rotations, shift changes, the quiet hours when even the walls seemed to sleep.
Jerome had drilled routine into this place the way soldiers drilled discipline into their bones, so much that nothing moved without a reason.
So when something moved outside the pattern, it stood out like blood on white tile.
I tested it carefully.
The first test was small. I left my room fifteen minutes earlier than usual, wandering toward the library at an odd hour when guards typically changed posts. I pretended to browse shelves, tracing spines I’d already read.
He was there.
Not stationed, or standing watch.
Just present, and quite obviously watching my every move, as he leaned against the far wall like he belonged there.
My stomach tightened.
I moved again the next night, later this time. Long after dinner, when most guards were supposed to be outside or resting. I went barefoot, silent, slipping down corridors I rarely used.
He appeared again.
This time at the corner near the east stairwell.
Still watching.
Still wrong. He probably thought I wouldn't recognise him as the guards usually had a mask on but I could tell the difference in who was who with and quite unfortunately for him, he stood out like a sore thumb, especially because of his height.
He was shorter than the average guard with a very pale skin and that scent trail of petrol that always followed him.
I told myself to be calm, to be smart as panic was a luxury I couldn’t afford. If I was being watched, then reacting emotionally would only confirm I was onto something.
So I smiled once.
A small, polite thing.
His eyes sharpened in response, and that was when it was set in stone for me.
Paranoia didn’t sharpen someone’s gaze like that.
I changed tactics.
I started moving unpredictably, leaving my room, then doubling back. Taking routes that clashed with guard rotations. Sitting in rooms long enough to see who lingered after they should’ve left.
He followed every time.
Never too close.
Never obvious, but always there.
The realization settled over me slowly and coldly: I was being watched. Not protected. Watched, and whoever he was, he wasn’t reporting to Jerome.
That was the part that terrified me.
I needed to tell Jerome immediately.
I turned toward the main corridor that led to his office wing, my pace calm even though my pulse thundered in my ears. My hand slipped into my pocket, fingers brushing my phone.
I didn’t make it three steps.
I felt it before I heard it.
The shift in air behind me, the soft but urgent sound of boots moving too fast.
I glanced back.
He knew.
Our eyes locked, and in that instant, the mask dropped.
No pretense. No patience.
He ran, and very fast in a few seconds.
Fear exploded through me, but it did freeze me on the spot as I was used to being scared and fighting for my life at the same time. I bolted.
The house suddenly felt too big, too empty. My footsteps echoed as I ran, breath tearing from my chest, but I didn’t scream, not yet. I needed Jerome.
I needed…
My phone was already in my hand. Immediately, I thought of our conversation where we agreed that SOS was all I needed to text if I needed him, so I held my phone in the most steady way I could while running at the best speed my legs would allow
SOS.
Jerome’s contact sat at the top like it had been waiting for this exact moment.
My thumb hovered over Send, but before I could combine whether or not I sent that message, a hand slammed into my back.
The impact knocked the breath from my lungs as I hit the floor hard, pain shooting through my palms and knees. The phone skidded across the marble, spinning uselessly away.
“No!” I gasped, scrambling.
He was on me in seconds, weight pinning me down with terrifying efficiency. One hand clamped over my mouth as the other produced a cloth soaked in something sharp and chemical.
“Don’t fight.” He hissed as he pressed his weight on me “It’ll be easier.” He gutted through his teeth as he used all of his strength to suppress me.
Panic surged like fire.
I thrashed, clawing, kicking, every survival instinct screaming. The cloth pressed against my nose, the scent burning my senses. My head spun instantly, vision blurring at the edges.
No.
Not like this.
Not again.
I bit down hard, teeth sinking into flesh. He cursed, jerking back just enough for me to suck in air, precious, painful air, and scream.
The scream barely left my throat, when he slammed the cloth back down.
My limbs felt heavy. My thoughts slowed, sliding like sand through my fingers.
The world tilted, sounds muffled, distant.
‘Jerome’ I thought desperately. ‘Please’
The weight vanished suddenly.
Violently.
The guard was yanked off me with brutal force, his body flying sideways like he weighed nothing at all. I rolled onto my side, coughing, gasping, dragging air into my burning lungs.
I barely registered the sound.
A gunshot.
Loud and final in a split second.
The guard hit the floor with a sound that didn’t belong to a living thing.
Silence followed. Thick, suffocating silence.
Hands were on me instantly.
Strong and familiar.
“Breathe.” Jerome’s voice cut through the fog, low and furious and shaking all at once. “My Princess, Please look at me. Breathe.” He pleaded in a panic as he lightly talked in my face and a called for medical attention
I obeyed blindly, clutching his shirt as he pulled me upright, his body shielding mine completely.
His hands trembled as he brushed my hair back, checking my face, my neck, my wrists, anywhere he could see, with jaw locked so tight I was scared it might shatter.
“Did he touch you?” He asked, voice barely restrained.
I shook my head weakly to say no.
“You knew.” He said. Not a question.
“Yes, but I wanted to be sure before I told you.”I admitted, with my voice still trembling.
His forehead dropped to mine, breath uneven.
“Don’t ever do that again”
“I didn’t want to be wrong.” I responded
“I would rather you be wrong than dead.” He snapped, then immediately softened, his grip tightening.