Chapter 17
LEO
I’m preparing for war.
I don’t tell Emma that’s what I’m doing or explain why I’ve doubled the guards on the property, why I’m installing new surveillance equipment at every entrance, and why I’ve called in favors from allied families to have eyes on every major route into and out of Long Island.
I just do it. Because Connor Brennan is coming.
“You’re being paranoid,” Dante says three days after the bombing, watching me review the new security protocols for the third time.
“I’m being prepared,” I correct, not looking up from the tablet in my hands. “There’s a difference.”
“Leo.” Dante sounds exasperated. “You’ve tripled security in less than seventy-two hours. You’re running background checks on everyone from the gardeners to the delivery drivers. You barely sleep. This is beyond prepared. This is—”
“Necessary,” I interrupt, finally meeting his eyes. “Connor Brennan doesn’t negotiate, Dante. He doesn’t compromise. He takes. And Emma is his daughter. Of course he’s coming back for her.”
“Maybe,” Dante concedes, leaning against my desk.
The cut above his eye from the explosion has been stitched, and there’s a bruise blooming across his ribs that I know is giving him hell even though he won’t admit it.
I also received hell from his wife, Alicia.
My ears are still ringing. “But you’re acting like he’s going to attack tomorrow.
We don’t even know if it was Connor who planted the bomb. ”
“It doesn’t matter who planted it,” I say impatiently, eyes back on my tablet. “Someone wants Emma dead. Someone else wants her back. Either way, this place needs to be a fortress.”
Dante studies me for a long moment, and I can see him putting pieces together. “You love her.”
My head jerks up to look into Dante’s assessing eyes.
“That’s not,” I start, but Dante holds up a hand.
“You love her,” he repeats, and there’s no judgment in his voice, just weariness. “Which means you’re not thinking clearly and you’re going to do something stupid and reckless when Connor does make his move.”
“I’m thinking perfectly clearly,” I argue, but even I can hear how defensive I sound. “I’m just making sure Emma is safe.”
“Emma,” Dante says, emphasizing her name. “Not ‘the asset.’ Not ‘Connor’s daughter.’ Emma. You hear yourself, right?”
I set the tablet down harder than necessary. “What’s your point, Dante?”
“My point is that you kidnapped her for revenge,” Dante says bluntly.
“And now you’re in love with her, which creates a problem when her father inevitably comes calling with guns and demands.
What are you going to do then, Leo? What happens when you have to choose between your vendetta and the woman you love? ”
“It won’t come to that,” I say, but the words sound hollow even to me.
“It might,” Dante says quietly. “And you need to think about what you’re going to do when it does.”
He leaves before I can respond, and I’m left staring at the security protocols I’ve been obsessing over for three days, trying not to think about the question Dante just asked.
Because I don’t have an answer.
What worries me more than the security situation and Connor’s inevitable retaliation is Emma’s reaction to all of it.
She’s been quiet. Withdrawn. Not herself.
Emma Brennan is many things—fierce, stubborn, sharp-tongued, and passionate—but quiet isn’t one of them. The Emma I’ve come to know fills rooms with her presence, argues with me over breakfast, laughs at terrible jokes, and makes sarcastic comments.
The Emma that’s been wandering the house for the past three days isn’t her. And I don’t know how to fix it.
I find her in the library that evening, sitting in one of the reading chairs with a book in her lap that she’s clearly not reading. She’s staring at nothing, her eyes unfocused, and when I get closer I can see they’re red-rimmed like she’s been crying.
My heart seemingly cracks.
She’s wearing one of my shirts—she’s been doing that lately, stealing my clothes when she thinks I’m not looking.
It’s too big on her, the sleeves falling past her hands, the hem reaching mid-thigh.
Her dark auburn hair is pulled back in a messy bun with strands escaping to frame her face, and even with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks she’s so fucking beautiful it takes my breath away.
The late afternoon light hits her just right, making her skin glow, catching those gold flecks in her green eyes that I’ve memorized.
She’s tucked her feet under her, and I can see the small scar on her knee peeking out from where my shirt has ridden up—the one from jumping off a too high swing when she was nine that she told me about during one of our late-night conversations.
I know her. Every scar, every habit, every expression.
I know that she sleeps curled on her side with one hand tucked under her pillow, that she steals the blankets in the middle of the night without realizing it.
I know that she reads in the bathtub until the water goes cold and she organizes books by color instead of author which drives me fucking insane because who does that?
I know she hates mint chocolate but loves dark chocolate, that she makes this specific humming sound when she’s content, and she paces when she’s thinking through a problem. I know that she’s stubborn and fierce and sharp-tongued, with a wicked sense of humor and zero tolerance for bullshit.
And I know that right now she’s hurting and wrestling with something that’s tearing her apart.
“Emma,” I say softly, not wanting to startle her.
She looks up slowly, like she’s surfacing from deep water, and when her green eyes focus on me I can see the pain in them. The conflict. The fear. But also something warm and aching that makes my heart stutter.
“Hey,” she says, and her voice is rough from crying before she clears her throat. “I—uh—I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Talk to me.” I pull up the ottoman so I can sit facing her but giving her space. “Please. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
Emma’s quiet for a long moment, her fingers playing with the corner of a page in her book. Her hands are small and delicate compared to mine, the nails unpainted, and I have the sudden urge to take them in my own and warm them up because they look cold.
When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“If it comes down to it—if my father and you are facing each other, guns drawn—what happens?”
I flinch because it’s the same question Dante asked and I’ve been avoiding thinking about it for days.
“I won’t let it get that far,” I say, but even as I say it I know it’s not enough.
“But if it does?” Emma presses, and now she’s looking at me with those eyes that see too much. “If you’re standing across from my father and it’s him or you—what happens, Leo?”
I can’t lie to her. Not about this. Not when I can see how much she’s hurting.
I kneel in front of her chair, taking both of her hands in mine. They are cold and I rub my thumbs across her knuckles.
“Then I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep you safe,” I say, my voice low and honest. “Even if that means…”
I can’t finish. The thought of killing Connor in front of Emma makes me physically sick. But I would. To protect her, to keep her safe, I’d do it. I’d do anything.
“Even if that means killing my father,” Emma finishes for me, and a tear spills down her cheek.
I wince. “I—”
“No, it’s okay,” she says, but more tears are falling now, tracking down her face in paths I want to wipe away. “I needed to hear you say it. Or almost say it. Because I needed to know where I stand. Where we stand.”
“Where do we stand?” I ask, almost unable to breathe with the weight of what we’re talking about.
Emma’s hands squeeze mine, her eyes bright with tears and some emotion that makes my heart stutter and my breath catch.
“I love you,” she says.
For a second I can’t breathe or think or do anything except stare at her. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, and my hands tighten on hers without meaning to.
It’s the first time she’s said it. The first time either of us has put words to this…this thing between us that’s been growing for weeks. And hearing it makes the universe seemingly shift.
“Emma,” I breathe, and her name is all I can manage because I don’t know how to tell her that hearing those words from her mouth is like being remade, like being given something I didn’t know I needed until this moment.
“I know I shouldn’t,” Emma continues, the words spilling out now like she’s been holding them back for too long.
“I know it’s complicated and definitely not how this was supposed to go.
” She takes a deep breath and looks up at me, her green eyes determined.
“But I do. I love you, Leo. And I needed you to know that before—before whatever’s coming comes. ”
My throat is tight and there’s an ache in my chest that’s simultaneously painful and wonderful. “I love you too.” The confession breaks something open inside me, something that’s been locked up tight for five years. “Fucking hell, Emma, I love you too.”
Emma half sobs, half laughs and then I’m pulling her from the chair and into my arms, holding her against my chest while she cries.
Her hands fist in my shirt and I can feel her tears soaking through the fabric, and I just hold her, one hand in her hair and the other wrapped around her waist, keeping her close.
She fits perfectly against me. She always has. Like she was made to be held by me, like all the broken pieces of me suddenly make sense when she’s in my arms.
Emma pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes red and wet and so beautiful it makes my mouth dry. “Take me to bed,” she says, her voice rough with emotion. “Please. I need—I just need you.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.
I stand up, taking Emma with me, lifting her into my arms like she weighs nothing. She wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck, burying her face against my shoulder as I carry her to our bedroom.