Chapter 34 Who Is He?
Sloane's POV
Jared's tie hung loosely around his neck, dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and he looked completely disheveled, radiating an air of barely contained aggression.
The only thing unchanged was his eyes—across the busy traffic, they were still terrifyingly dark, locked firmly on me and on David's hand resting on my arm.
The next second, he completely ignored the flowing traffic and strode straight toward us. Sharp brake squeals and drivers' curses rose one after another, but he didn't hear any of it.
"Sloane." He stopped in front of me, his voice hoarse as if scraped by sandpaper.
He didn't even glance at David. He just reached out, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me away from David without a word.
The force was so strong that several chamomile stems fell from my arms.
"What are you doing!" David stepped forward, trying to stop him.
But Jared was faster. He pulled me into his arms, slipped his other hand under my knees, and just picked me up horizontally.
I gasped, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck to steady myself.
His familiar cold scent mixed with a faint tobacco smell instantly surrounded me. The position was too intimate. My whole body went stiff, and I struggled to get down. "Jared, put me down!"
"Mr. Montclair, please let Sloane go. She just had surgery. This is completely inappropriate." David frowned, his tone full of disapproval.
Jared finally spared David a glance. He curved his lips, but the smile was cold and mocking, full of provocation. "Did you forget? This is how my wife and I get along."
He deliberately emphasized "my wife," that sense of possessiveness so domineering it was almost unbearable.
David's face darkened, but ultimately he couldn't argue because of that title.
Jared ignored him, carrying me as he turned and strode toward the group home.
The two plainclothes bodyguards exchanged glances and could only follow helplessly.
I was trapped in his arms, unable to move, watching David's figure grow more and more distant.
Our appearance caused quite a stir in the small group home.
The children gathered around curiously, and Director Aria hurried out. When she saw Jared carefully set me down and naturally take the flowers from my hands, tears instantly welled up in her kind eyes.
"Oh, that's wonderful, Sloane. Seeing how much you two love each other makes me so happy for you." She held my hand, then looked at the tall, handsome Jared beside me, her face full of pleased smiles.
I opened my mouth, but any explanation stuck in my throat, seeming so pale and powerless.
Jared said nothing, simply accepting the misunderstanding.
He supported me as Director Aria led us back to that small attic room, where she quickly found an excuse to leave, giving us space.
The room fell into suffocating silence again. Jared placed the chamomile bouquet in an empty glass bottle on the windowsill, then turned around, his gaze falling on the small bed I used to sleep in.
The bed was very small, the frame slightly uneven, the paint on the headboard peeling.
He stared at that bed for a long time.
"Was it... very hard for you back then?" He suddenly spoke, his voice low, as if afraid of disturbing something.
I froze.
This was the first time he'd asked about my past.
Not interrogating, not doubting—just simply wanting to know.
I leaned against the wall, looking at the honey locust tree outside the window, my voice soft, like telling a distant story. "It was okay. This place was poor, but Director Aria was good to us. In winter she'd light the stove, in summer there was well water in the yard. When we were hungry, there might not have been candy, but there was always bread."
I spoke calmly, but those buried memories of hunger and cold still surged up uncontrollably.
The room was very quiet, only my flat narration filling the space.
Without realizing it, I felt warmth at my ankle.
I looked down to see Jared kneeling on one knee in front of me. He'd removed my shoe, and his large hands were wrapped around my foot, his fingertips kneading with just the right pressure.
My feet ached from standing so long. When he pressed that spot, a jolt of sensation shot up from my sole and spread through my entire body. I went rigid, blood rushing to my head as my cheeks burned with heat.
"I... I can do it myself." I tried to pull my foot back in panic, my voice trembling without my realizing it. "You don't need to do this."
His grip was unyielding. I struggled, but he only held my ankle tighter.
Those large hands were like iron clamps, firmly holding me in place.
"Don't move." His voice deepened with a commanding tone. "Watch where you're going from now on. You won't always have someone to catch you."
The words were domineering and unreasonable. Clearly concern, but coming from his mouth they sounded different—like scolding a child who didn't know better.
The warm sensation spread from my ankle to my heart, bringing an unfamiliar tingling.
My cheeks burned uncontrollably, my heartbeat losing its rhythm.
I looked at his focused profile. The dim light softened his sharp features, and that serious expression made me momentarily dazed.
I really didn't understand him.
One second he could speak harshly to me because of Keira, and the next second he could kneel down to massage my feet.
This contradictory tenderness was like poison wrapped in sugar, leaving me confused and even more guarded.
"Jared," I finally couldn't hold back, my voice light as a feather. "Why... are you doing this?"
Why are you suddenly being so good to me?
His kneading paused. He looked up, those bottomless dark eyes locked on me in the dimness, as if trying to read something from my face.
Just as he was about to speak, there was a soft knock on the attic door.
"Sloane?" David's voice came from outside, warm and polite. "Do you want to go see Grayson now?"
One sentence sent ice water through my veins, killing the moment.
I clearly saw the softness on Jared's face freeze. He slowly released my foot and stood up, the pressure around him dropping to a terrifying level.
David pushed open the door and walked in, holding a fresh bouquet of chamomile.
He forced the name through clenched teeth, each word carrying cold murderous intent. "Who is he?"
Again.
That tiny ripple that had just formed in my heart instantly froze into ice.
I suddenly felt very tired, without even the energy to argue.
I met his gaze calmly, my tone numb after everything had burned out. "He's exactly who you've been wanting to know about—the man in that painting."