Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
CADEN
In the weeks after our night of failed vulnerability, and Walter McGrath’s grand debut, I started to open myself up to Emma more and more—not only about trivial things, but real personal shit.
Rather than reading in my study, I told her about my childhood, and how I was raised by Sean’s parents from the age of fourteen—though I didn’t go into the reasons behind it. And she didn’t press, again. Which said a lot about her.
In preference to walking her in silence to her room, I told her about my training years in Australia, about Stephen’s brutal methods, how he first trained me as a Specialist before realizing my skill set fit better in an Offensive role.
Instead of organizing practical jokes, I talked about becoming First Offensive of Crown, about how I’d gathered my friends—my people—and built what I considered the perfect team.
We talked for hours every night.
And the more I talked, the more she did.
Emma talked about her life as a lawyer, how she never had any close friends except for Lisa and Julian, until she came to Crown, where, for the first time, she felt like she truly fit in.
That admission made my heart fucking jump.
She spoke of her parents and the incredible humans they were, achieving so much at a young age, and I began to understand where her insane fear of failure stemmed from.
We were growing closer with every conversation, and fuck if it wasn’t exactly what I wanted.
But there was still one subject she kept locked down. One she’d fortified with so many high-defense walls, even Petru Stoyan would’ve been impressed.
I’d been waiting for the right moment to bring it up. But with Emma, there was never a right moment—only the moments she let happen.
Which she finally did on a Friday night.
It was after midnight. The estate was quiet, the kind of silence which only came when everyone else had long since turned in. The night air was crisp, cool against my skin as I leaned against one of the stone pillars outside, a cigarette burning lazily between my fingers.
I heard her footsteps before I saw her. Light, measured. Then she stepped into view, arms crossed, her knowing gaze sweeping over me before locking onto the cigarette.
“You smoke, Colt?” She cocked a brow, and tilted her head a bit. “That shit’ll kill you, you know.”
Her tone was dry, edged with something teasing—but underneath, I caught the faintest trace of disapproval.
I exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching the way it curled into the night air before glancing at her. “And yet, here I stand alive. A medical mystery.”
Her lips twitched, like she was fighting back a smirk. But she didn’t let it slip.
Instead, she stepped closer, her arms still folded, the glow of the embers reflecting in her eyes.
I knew she wasn’t here to comment on my smoking. And I had a feeling this conversation was about to get interesting.
“Seriously, this shit is bad for you.”
I smirked, exhaling a thin trail of cancerous haze. “For humans. We simply go see a Healer, and we’re back to our tar-free selves.”
She shook her head but didn’t walk away. Rather, she studied me, wary and assessing.
“What?”
“Just…” she hesitated. “People often end up doing the opposite of what you expect. You’re always so composed, so in control.
Everyone here looks up to you, and you dress like a fucking billionaire mob boss.
I’d expect you to light a cigar maybe—but here you are, smoking cigarettes like some fifteen-year-old rebel. ”
I snorted. “Not a fan of cigarettes?”
She shrugged. “My dad’s a doctor. He’d kill me if he ever caught me with one.” Then, after a beat, she added, “Though I learned how to smoke cigars from him. We’d share one every summer. Only the one though.”
“Quite the dichotomy.”
"Which proves my initial point."
I nodded, taking another slow drag, letting the smoke curl between us. "Guess so."
And then, just like that—like it was nothing, like it didn’t carry the weight of everything she’d kept locked away—she said it.
"James smokes cigars."
The air between us shifted. Subtle, but there. And I didn’t miss the effort it took for her to say those words out loud.
"Have you heard from him?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
She shook her head. “No, and I don’t think I will. I broke his heart in Switzerland, and he’s stubborn. His walls are too high, I’d be surprised if he contacts me this cycle.”
I exhaled, flicking the cigarette into the dirt before turning to face her fully. “You realize that makes him the biggest idiot in the world, right?”
She shrugged, trying for indifference, but her eyes betrayed her. The hurt—the one she carried so well, so invisibly—I saw it clear as day. And for some reason, it made me start planning James’s murder in meticulous detail.
I stepped in closer, my voice low. “Do you think you could ever forgive him?”
Her focus lifted, searching my face like she was trying to gauge whether I actually wanted the answer or if I was only making conversation.
"For not contacting me?" she asked. "Or for lying the entire time we were together?"
My eyes held hers. “Either.”
She hesitated, the words heavy on her tongue, caught between the safety of silence and the weight of letting them go.
And then, eventually, they spilled out. Slow at first—careful, measured. But once they started, they tumbled forward, a confession she could no longer keep locked inside.
“It’s not just that he kept things from me,” she said, the words soft but laced with pain.
“It’s that I didn’t have anyone else. I was so isolated, no family, no friends, no one I could turn to.
James was the only constant in my life, the only person who made me feel like I wasn’t completely alone. ”
She looked down, her fingers twisting together, as if trying to ground herself.
“I depended on him so much,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “Too much, maybe. So when he—” She stopped, breath catching, her lashes fluttering shut for a moment as she steadied herself.
“When he betrayed me, it wasn’t only about what he did. It was the fact I’d trusted him with everything, and he never gave me the same in return.”
She let out a quiet snort, but the sadness in her features lingered. “He didn’t even tell me his real name.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
She exhaled, slow and measured. “When the Council selected him for the Offensive program at age nine, he renamed himself James—after James Bond. Aside from Stephen and Jackson, no one knows what he was born as. Not even me.”
I shook my head. “Damn, the guy takes keeping secrets to an Olympic level."
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Yes, and in keeping his secrets, he also tried to keep me small, too. Tried to contain my powers, my personal growth. And realizing that…” She took in another deep breath. “It broke something inside me.”
Her voice trembled, and she pressed her lips together, willing herself not to fall apart after her own admission.
Fuck me. This was way out of my depth. My chest tightened at the rawness in her voice, and I had no idea what to say. So, of course, I went for the first thing coming to mind—a fucking platitude. “Communication is key.”
Really Colt? Communication is key?
The laugh she let out while I was mentally kicking myself was dry, almost bitter, but it didn’t erase the hurt etched into her face. “Ah, yes. Which is pretty much where we crashed and burned.”
I tilted my head, studying her, trying to piece together what she wasn’t saying. “Why’s that?”
She sighed, the kind of deep, heavy sigh, coming from a place of defeat.
“I think we couldn’t see past our own pain to recognize the one the other bore.
I didn’t even try at first. After we got together, I wanted to fix it—Gods, I tried—but…
well…” She hesitated, biting her bottom lip. “I’m also a little stubborn.”
I deliberately tried keeping my expression neutral, though the corner of my mouth threatened to twitch.
She shot me a look, huffing like she knew exactly what I was thinking. “Fine,” she said, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m horribly stubborn. There. Happy?”
I let the silence stretch for a beat, enough to watch her squirm. My lips curled despite myself, almost breaking into a smile. “Getting there,” I said, the words laced with quiet amusement.
She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath, but I could still see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
"I fell in love with him so fast," she admitted, something akin to regret lacing her words. "It consumed me. I thought it was everything." She hesitated, exhaling shakily before looking at me.
"But now… I don’t even know if it was real.
Stephen achieved the impossible,” she said, tinged with bitterness.
“He turned me into a weak victim, in need of saving. And he turned the darkest killer into a hero, to make us fall in love. And whereas my love for James was real, I don’t think his ever was. ”
“Was? Your love was?” I couldn’t help but ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
She shrugged, looking lost. “Was. Is. I don’t know. I’m still too angry to pinpoint exactly how I feel about him. I can’t trust him, and ironically, he still doesn’t trust me. That’s not a great base for a relationship.”
I watched her, the war in her eyes, the way she fought against the her own emotions.
"Sounds like it wasn’t only Stephen who turned you weak," I said, quieter than I intended.
She glanced at me and straightened, all tension and armor—anger, maybe, or just the truth hitting a little too hard.
"James wasn’t perfect," she snapped, her voice edged with frustration, "but he didn’t have to be. All I needed from him was…"
She exhaled slowly, then looked down at the ground.
I nudged her gently, urging her forward. "Was what?"