Page 18 of Jude

I took an inhale, arching a brow at the unexpected lightness in my soul.

It always felt good knowing that my hard work and coin helped those in need.

SOFIA

The bottom of the askew door scraped the linoleum floor as the tall stranger walked into the room.

He was a mountain of a man.

When his strong hands shot out to pick me up when I fell in the terminal and pulled me up to him, I’d been thrust up against a wall of solid muscle.

The sensation had been heady then, and his energy and gravitas hit me once again as I studied him now.

I guessed he was in his mid-thirties.

He was handsome, with a brooding, rugged energy, wavy dark hair that fell to his shoulders, a neat beard, and stunning deep emerald eyes.

His jawline belonged on a billboard.

He was also sinewy and fit, his jeans molded over his thick thighs, hiding nothing of his solid physique.

He wore jewelry: earrings, bracelets, and rings, and his ink was impressive.

Intricate ebony patterns covered his neck and corded arms, disappearing beneath the edges of his black hoodie.

He carried himself with contemplative stillness, confidence, and an undeniable authority, as if he were accustomed to commanding troops or controlling crowds.

The only reason I chose to trust him at the airport was that I spotted the Aquila del Bonelli emblem on his gear.

The vinyl sticker near the brass latches of his guitar case stood out, as if calling to me.

For some reason, seeing it had given me a wild sense of peace, that he could be trusted.

Now he eased into a chair across the interrogation table and sat facing me, his posture alert, his lips pursed.

I wondered if he ever smiled; he’d only given me brooding since we met.

He used his forefinger, with a thick silver ring on it, to slide a folder of legal documents across the table.

‘I realize I never told you my name. It’s Bodhi Judah Valenti but most people call me Jude.’

His voice was deep, gravelly, and hoarse like he’d been talking too much.

It also had a rolling Australian rumble that sounded foreign in an East Coast precinct.

‘Hi, Jude,’ I whispered.

‘My stepfather has signed you out,’ he drawled, ‘and my attorneys in Nashville spent the last hour twisting the arms of the feds. You’re now listed as a legal dependent under my name. You’re in my custody now, Sofia, and that of my stepfather, the local Sheriff.’

I stared at the stamped seals on the paperwork, my heart hammering.

‘Custody? I don’t understand, signore.’

‘It means the transport van to the county detention facility is leaving without you,’ he explained, leaning back into the flimsy seat, crossing his hands over his muscled chest. ‘We might’ve let you go, but the threat you outlined forced us to flag it with the feds. They insisted on your safety, in the custody of trusted agents, AKA us.’

I attempted to process what they were telling me, even as the fear lanced through me.

I’d heard stories of Italians with valid visas who’d been taken into detention and deported, and I hoped I wasn’t going to suffer the same stress.