Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Emma
I stare at my phone. It’s so strange that Jake hasn’t called me, not since Owen got here. I check and find I do have at least one pathetic little bar of cell service.
Steam coils under the door, the hiss of water, steady and relentless.
Owen’s in the shower, and I love it because it’s like watching him shed a skin.
My Owen becomes someone else in there—boyish and carefree, like the weight of the world doesn’t press against those broad shoulders for once.
His voice, deep baritone, rolls through the tiny bathroom walls, echoing, vibrating through the plaster like thunder caged in a box. And I smile.
I want to bottle that version of him and keep it… because it’s rare.
I’m sitting up in bed, laptop on my knees, the faint blue glow on my thighs. Then it hits me—this is the perfect chance to do what I’ve been dying to: a little snooping. A little digging into the mystery he refuses to name.
Every time I ask about his job, he dodges. Deflects. His jaw sets, and his voice turns flat. He says being near him puts me in danger. He says he does illegal shit and doesn’t even sugarcoat it. And I believe him.
This isn’t new. It’s always been there since I’ve known him, even when we were kids under the same roof.
My mom, his dad. The awkward blended family nobody asked for.
Back then, Owen always had cash, more than the other boys.
There would be new sneakers and crisp bills folded in his pocket.
He told me he worked at a mechanic’s. He told me he mowed lawns.
He told me a thousand little lies with that easy grin.
But I watched him. I saw him down on Main, leaning against the brick wall outside the coffee shop, talking to older men who passed him packages too small to be sandwiches. Too quick to be innocent.
I hated it. I hated the secrecy. But his father didn’t care. My mother didn’t notice. And me? I wasn’t about to be the little sister who ratted him out. Still, I knew… something was wrong.
And now… the proof is right there, a beat-up little laptop practically begging to be cracked open, sitting careless and dented on the kitchen table.
I push off the bed and cross the floor quiet as a thief. My fingers curl over the lid, clicking it open.
“What are you doing?”
His voice slams into me, deep and raw, booming through the room like a gunshot.
I spin. Jesus Christ. I thought I had at least fifteen minutes.
But there he is already. A towel slung low on his hips, damp and dangerous.
His skin flushed, slick with beads of water trailing over his chest, down his arms. His hair darkened, dripping.
And those eyes—those fucking eyes—narrowed on me in that way that makes my pulse race.
“Why are you on my laptop, Emma?”
My throat locks. I snap the lid shut, my hands trembling just enough for me to notice. His gaze cuts me open.
I go for the truth, the only weapon sharp enough. “Because I don’t like that you’re lying to me.”
His brows draw together, shadowing his face. His brogue thickens, a growl. “When did I fucking lie to you, lass? I’m not lying to you. Even if I were, that doesn’t give you the right to snoop on my damn laptop.”
My heart pounds, but I don’t back down. “If you have nothing to hide…”
“Didn’t say that,” he murmurs. Quiet. Deadly.
The silence stretches as water still drips from him, tapping against the floor. Then he shakes his head. “Some of the clients I have… they’re dangerous. They demand anonymity. If you came near them, if they saw you…” His voice cuts off. He doesn’t need to finish.
My arms fold across my chest, armor against the chill racing through me. “What did you do to Jake?”
His eyes flicker—guilt, a shadow—but no retreat.
“I need answers, Owen,” I push. “The snow’s melting.
Our time’s running out. And I can’t go back to pretending I was okay without you.
Pretending any other man meant a damn thing.
Pretending I wanted to be alone.” My voice cracks, low but steady.
“I don’t want anyone else. I want you. But I want the truth. ”
His scowl deepens. He steps closer, the towel shifting dangerously, water still dripping from his hair. His bare feet are silent on the tile.
“Had a conversation with him,” he says at last. And I know two things: First, he’s telling the truth, and second, a “conversation” with Jake would’ve been borderline illegal. His gaze doesn’t flinch. His jaw is tight, guilty but steady.
“Heard he wasn’t treating you well. So I went to his workplace.” A pause, then his mouth hardens. “Told him he was never to contact you again unless you initiated it, and it was time to sign those fucking papers.”
My breath catches. “When?”
“The day before I came here,” he whispers.
And that’s it. That explains everything. The sudden silence. Jake’s texts cut off.
“How did you know what he did to me?” My voice is sharper now, demanding.
Owen folds his arms, biceps flexing, chest rising—a wall of muscle and menace. And he stares at me like he already knows the answer I’ll hate.
The cabin’s too warm. Fire snaps in the fireplace as steam curls off his bare shoulders.
We shouldn’t be having this conversation while he’s shirtless. It isn’t fair. I cross my arms, trying to focus.
Not on the way his hair’s still damp from the shower or the way one droplet rolls all the way down his sharp, tight jawline. Not on the veins in his forearms, or the dangerous look or warning.
“I saw the signs,” Owen says calmly, like none of this touches him. “Your posts. His patterns. Didn’t take long to figure it out.”
He glances away, his jaw ticking. “I may’ve been… following him.”
My stomach drops. “What? Owen?” I shake my head.
He mutters, almost smiling, “I knew about the affair. Affairs,” he says pointedly. Then, sharper, “But even if I had come to you, told you flat-out… Emma, be honest. Would you have believed me?”
I swallow. My lips feel dry. I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He watches me a beat too long.
“I went to him. I told him to sign the papers. Said he could fuck whoever he wanted. But he was never, never to touch you again, come near you again, or contact you.”
“You did that?”
My thoughts are spinning. Too many voices in my head at once—his, mine, Jake’s.
“I don’t even know how I feel about this,” I whisper. “I don’t know how I should.” But that’s a lie. I do feel something. Too much. Rage. Awe. A twisted sense of relief at being wanted this violently.
I should be scared. Am I? I shake my head. “And when are you going to tell me the truth about your work?”
Silence. Just the hiss of the fire and the pulse pounding in my neck.
“Never,” he snaps.
“Owen—”
“Emma. I told you. It’s not about keeping you in the dark. It’s about keeping you alive. If you know too much, you’re in danger.”
I push off the wall and step toward him until the air between us vanishes. Close enough to breathe each other in. Close enough that I’m in his orbit and in danger of being incapable of making a rational decision.
“Owen,” I say again. Then, before I can stop myself… “I’m already in danger. Because I love you.”
His eyes soften.
“You do?”
“Of course I do.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I’ve loved you for years. I thought you knew.”
His mouth parts. A soundless breath. Then—
“How the fuck would I know that? You married that loser.”
“I told you why I did that. I—”
He leans in, cutting me off and kissing me. I can taste the longing, the yearning, the need. It’s the kind of kiss that tastes like all the years we lost.
We don’t stop until the light outside dims and his hair’s drying in messy waves. When he pulls back, his hand stays wrapped around the back of my neck.
“I want to do right by you,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Whatever that means.”
I swallow hard, my hand on his broad shoulder to steady me and make my point. “Then be honest. You threatened my ex without telling me. You’re still hiding things about your work.”
“I’d do it again,” he says darkly. “And if those men today hadn’t listened to you, if they had made a move, they’d be dead. No hesitation.”
“Is that what you do?” My voice shakes. “Do you kill people for hire?”
He holds my gaze, his jaw clenched.
A beat.
“Not always. Depends on who it is.” He looks away. “And that’s already telling you too much.”
Not always.
Then… that means yes.
My voice trembles. “Would you really kill someone?” I whisper. “If they deserved it?”
“Only the worst of them,” he growls. “The predators. The ones no one mourns. Scum of the fucking earth. That’s who I take jobs for.”
His fingers drift through my hair tenderly, too tender for who he is.
“I don’t talk about it.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because it pays well. And I’m fucking good at it.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just looks past me, and then back, his voice low.
“If they told me to put a bullet in the head of some cheating bastard like your husband? I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. This is scary—all of it. Us.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He drags the laptop toward me and opens it.
“Password’s one, two, three, four,” he mutters. “Everything’s yours to see. Just don’t send. Don’t reply. Camera off. Got it?”
I nod, and he kisses my cheek—not soft, not hard. Just… final.
“I’m going to get changed,” he says. “Poke around. If you find something you can’t live with, I’ll leave. Snow’s melting. You can go back to your life. I won’t stop you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the fire hissing and the truth still echoing through the room.
I’m not sure if what he just told me… was love. Or a warning.