Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
CADEN
The weeks after Slava blurred into a non-stop grind of missions into the Human World, chasing down scraps of intel on the Amplifier, and poking around Radical camps like we had a death wish.
Meanwhile, my team got saddled with diplomatic assignments—negotiating with other Collectives, securing access to their grounds, and generally pretending we had patience for bureaucracy.
And somewhere in the middle of all the chaos, I realized something had shifted between Emma and me.
At first, it was subtle—a growing ease, a mutual understanding that didn’t require words. Then, at some point, I had the alarming realization I actually trusted her.
Slava had changed everything. Not only because she’d saved my life—which, sure, earned her some points—but because she’d proven herself. Sharp instincts, quick thinking, an absurd level of resilience.
The moment she’d confided in me—told me something she hadn’t shared with anyone else—it solidified something between us. Trust. A bond I hadn’t expected, hadn’t even been looking for.
After that, having her around simply made sense.
Of course, it didn’t mean it wasn’t a fucking challenge. Because beneath all the trust and effortless teamwork, I was dealing with something far more aggravating—a physical attraction I had no business feeling. One I had to shove down, bury deep in the most unyielding part of my soul.
The way my body reacted to hers was infuriating. A careless touch, a moment too close, and heat would lance through me like a live wire, piercing and unwelcome. It was primal, visceral—but it sure as hell wasn’t something I could entertain.
Still, we worked together like we’d been doing it for years instead of weeks. An unspoken language. A glance across the battlefield, the barest flicker of movement, and she knew exactly what I needed before I even had to ask. No fumbling. No over-explaining. Just instinct.
Same went for strategizing in the command room. We weren’t finishing each other’s sentences or anything, but she needed less context than some of my team members—people I’d been working with for cycles—to get where I was going.
And fuck if that didn’t make things harder.
Because every time she was a step ahead of me, every time she met me halfway without hesitation, it only reinforced the one thing I was trying like hell to ignore—
She fit.
She just fucking fit in.
And then, somewhere along the way, I caught myself wanting to do something nice for her. Not only because she was an asset—though, let’s be real, it definitely factored in—but because Emma carried more weight on her shoulders than most people, and for some reason, I wanted to even the scales.
So when I saw her room looking like a crime scene of abandoned books, I figured she might appreciate a proper reading space. One night after dinner, I invited her into my personal library, a room that had always been my personal retreat from the chaos of our world.
Giving her a small tour of the premises, I couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction at her wide-eyed expression, the subtle awe as she ran her fingers along the spines of the books. It was clear she appreciated the space, and that simple fact made it feel even more worthwhile.
With it, a new routine was born.
She joined us every evening at dinner with the team, which had gotten louder with her around. Turned out, underneath all that frost, Emma had a razor-sharp, deadpan humor that fit right in with our brand of dysfunctional brotherhood.
“I’m just saying,” Emile announced one night, holding his spoon like it had broadcast power, “if I had to hook up with a mythical creature, I’m picking a siren. No question.”
Rocco gave him a look. “You mean the ones who sing men to their deaths?”
Emile replied, his mouth full. “Exactly. I’d do her good while she’d serenade me.”
Across the table, Emma didn’t even blink. “You think she’d bother to finish the song?”
Kate snorted into her glass. Enya choked on her bread.
“Excuse me,” Emile said, clutching his imaginary pearls, “miss hasn't seen the full performance, but I have skills.”
Emma tilted her head. “Do those include apologizing after two minutes and pretending it never happened?”
The table howled. Rocco had to grip the edge to stay upright.
Emile grinned through the laughter. “You’d be surprised what I can do with two full minutes.”
Emma raised a brow, flat and unimpressed. “I don’t think jiggling boobs until the woman fakes her orgasm really counts.”
Emile gasped in mock shock. “How dare you—those boob jiggles are choreographed.”
Emma smirked. “I’m sure they are.”
“Wow,” Emile said, throwing a hand over his heart. “Can’t believe I’m being slut-shamed for my passion. And for the record, some women appreciate enthusiastic flailing!”
Emma let out an actual laugh—clear, genuine, and completely unguarded. I realized it was the first real one I’d ever heard from her.
It was like that. Every. Damn. Evening.
She’d toss out a single-line insult, and suddenly the table was a disaster zone of people choking on their drinks. Rocco and Emile were especially obsessed, planting themselves on either side of her like overgrown guard dogs, waiting for their next dose of comedy.
After dinner, I usually brought her back to the library.
It became a ritual of sorts—sitting in silence, each of us in our own chesterfield, reading and sipping on aged Scotch. I was only mildly horrified to find I had actually started looking forward to it.
One night, as we sat there in the soft glow of the lamps, I glanced over at her.
She looked peaceful, utterly relaxed, her curvy figure nestled into the chair, a book in one hand and a glass in the other.
Her brows furrowed in concentration, completely absorbed in whatever she was reading.
There was something so serene about her in that moment it caught me off guard.
Such a stark contrast to the fierce warrior I’d come to know on the battlefield.
My mind wandered back to the memory of her snapping a man’s neck after seducing him, the lethal edge she hid so well behind her quiet grace.
It was hard to reconcile these two sides of her, yet they existed so seamlessly together.
Before I knew it, the next words slipped out.
“You kind of remind me of a black widow,” I said, keeping my tone light, as if we were discussing breakfast choices.
She looked up, a little surprised. “The spider?”
I shrugged, and straightened my spine. “Spent a lot of time in Australia. My mind just went there.”
She rolled her eyes at me, unimpressed, before returning them to the page. “Charming.”
I smirked, unable to resist. “Coming from someone who uses seduction to kill, I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“Delusional too?” she retorted, not even bothering to look up.
I leaned back in my chair, still grinning. “Charming and delusional. That’s me.”
Emma shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “I’ll make sure to put it on your tombstone when someone finally takes you out.”
I chuckled, then raised my glass to her. “My guess is, you’ll be the one to do it.”
Her features softened just a touch as she sipped her Scotch. “If you’re lucky,” she murmured, eyes glinting with that same dangerous edge I’d come to appreciate.
“How would you go about it?” I asked, eager to keep the easy banter going.
"Black widows use venom, Caden. You should know that," she said, keeping her tone dry but it was tinged with amusement.
I smiled as I swirled the last bit of Scotch in my glass. "Oh, I know. Luckily, I’ve always had a thing for poisonous women."
“I imagine sleeping with you would turn them suicidal rather than deadly,” she muttered.
I barked out a laugh before shifting my voice to a lower pitch. “Oh, I think you’d be very surprised what sleeping with me turns women into.” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice even more. “Care to find out?”
Her head finally snapped up. “Ask me again and watch me poison you for real.”
I grinned, the death threat strangely warming my insides. "You’re oddly fixated on my untimely demise."
Emma went still for a moment, tension running through her before it eased. "Call it a survival mechanism.”
I kept my grin in place. "At least promise me a dramatic sendoff."
Her lips twitched, almost as if against her will. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your eulogy includes the words ‘deserved it’ at least three times.”
I noticed the shift in her demeanor and couldn’t help teasing her. “Miss Thompson, is that a smile?”
She quickly pressed her lips into a firm line, trying to regain control. “No, just a facial spasm. I get those when people annoy me.”
I laughed, leaning forward a bit more. "Then I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of those."
She shot me a playful glare, sticking her tongue out before turning back to her book, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement.
I chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through me—a slow, subtle thing I had come to expect whenever she was near. Something disarming. Something dangerous. Something I wanted more of it.
When she finally left for the night, her scent lingered—delicate pear with the faintest trace of lilies.
And damn it all to hell—I liked it.
The next night she retaliated.
The fire muttered to itself in the background, throwing a flickering glow around the room like it had nothing better to do. Shadows stretched and twisted across the walls, playing dramatic little games over the endless rows of bookshelves.
The air carried the familiar mix of old paper, leather, and Scotch—basically, the scent of questionable life choices and misplaced intellectualism.
Emma was in her usual spot, curled up in the chesterfield like a cat that had claimed the furniture as her birthright. Legs tucked, eyes glued to her book, completely ignoring the world. Her glass of Scotch sat untouched on the side table.
The quiet between us wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite even.