Chapter 23 #2
The steam fills the room as I close my eyes, hissing when the water runs over my knuckles, the ache in my shoulders, and everything I can’t shake.
When I finally step out minutes later, the world feels quieter.
I pull on a pair of sweats and run the towel over my short, damp hair before tossing it in the laundry basket. My body is still coiled tight from the adrenaline, but at least the grime and blood are gone.
I head back to the kitchen and pause when I see my dinner waiting. The plate sits on the table, steam curling off the pasta, and cutlery laid out beside it. The salt, pepper, and grated parmesan cheese are within reach.
The tea Emily was sipping when I got home is sitting there untouched. My stomach twists, but not from hunger, exactly, from the unfamiliar weight of someone thinking and taking care of me without being asked.
I hover at the edge of the table for a long moment with hands in my pockets, staring at it like it’s a trap. I’m not used to this. I’m not used to someone doing something for me just because they care.
“Sit,” Emily says, re-entering the dining room with a glass of water in hand, setting it down beside my plate. “Eat while it’s still hot.”
I do as I’m told, finally sitting, but when I pick up the fork, it feels foreign, like I’m learning how to use it all over again.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I realise it’s not just the food.
It’s her, in every small detail. It shows she’s been thinking about me, and I like that more than I feel comfortable admitting.
I take a bite, groaning at the creamy perfection, and for the first time tonight, the tight knot in my chest begins to loosen.
Emily slides into the seat across from me and reaches for her mug. A small smile curves her lips as she brings the cup to her mouth. The smile fades almost instantly after she takes a sip. She gags and spits the tea back into the cup, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“Cold tea is nasty,” she mutters, shaking her head.
I place down my fork and stand. “Let me make you another.”
“No,” she says, trying to reach for me, but I step away from the table before she can get a grip. “Eat, I can—”
“You take care of me all the time, Em, let me do something for you.”
“Are you kidding me?” she says, following me into the kitchen. “You’ve taken care of all my needs since I moved in here.”
I pause when she says that, glancing at her over my shoulder and cocking an eyebrow. “All of your needs?” I repeat, smirking. “Not even close, cupcake.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever said the nickname out loud.
“Cupcake?” she echoes.
“Yeah. Mia tortina (My little cake). You smell like one. I noticed it the first time I met you.”
“I do?” she asks, almost shyly, and I immediately want to kick myself for voicing that out loud.
You smell good enough to ruin me, sweetheart, but I swallow those words back because I’ve already said way more than I’m comfortable with.
I move to the kettle and flick the switch, the low hum filling the kitchen. Steam curls from the spout, and my thoughts drift straight to her before I can stop them.
The way her golden hair slips over her shoulder when she moves.
The way she scrunches her nose when she’s concentrating.
The soft curves of her body that a man like me could spend years learning by heart.
My chest tightens, and I drag my attention back to the kettle.
If she knew half the things she did to me just by breathing, she’d run for the hills.
The kettle clicks off. I shake my head, trying to clear it, and pour the water into her mug with deliberate care. I turn, dropping the teabag into the cup, dipping it slowly, in and out … in and out, steady, controlled.
Her eyes widen, and her stance shifts slightly as a faint blush rises over her cheeks.
I lean back against the counter, letting my gaze settle on her. Not rushing, and for once, not hiding. Just letting her feel the weight of my attention.
“You’re staring,” she murmurs a little breathless.
“Only because it’s hard not to,” I admit. My voice comes out rougher than I intend, and the truth of it pulses through every word. Because she’s so fucking beautiful that sometimes, if I stare at her for too long, my chest starts to ache.
She swallows thickly and glances back down at the mug in my hand. The pink in her cheeks deepens, and the air thickens between us; it’s charged in a way I can feel deep in my bones.
Does she feel it too?
Fuck, I hope so.
For a moment, it’s just us, the heat, the tension, and all the things neither of us are saying.
And for the first time, I let myself admit it … I want her more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time, and I’m done pretending otherwise.
I take a step towards her, then another. When I’m only a few feet away, I hear her breath hitch in her throat. And if I’m being honest, she looks quietly terrified. That’s enough to stop me cold.
Whatever I thought I was about to do or say dies on my tongue.
I swallow hard and offer her the mug instead. She hesitates, but when her gaze drops to my hand, her breath catches again, sharper this time. Her eyes widen, and I realise she’s finally noticed my beat-up knuckles.
The bruising. The split skin. The places where the blood didn’t quite wash off.
Her fingers don’t touch mine when she takes the mug out of my hand, but they hover close. Close enough that I feel her warmth. Close enough that I see the worry flicker across her face like a shadow she can’t hide.
“You’re hurt,” she whispers.
The words land heavily, as if she feels it more than I do. For a second, the look of concern in her eyes catches me off guard.
I lift one shoulder. “I got in a bit of a scuffle today,” I say, keeping it light, because she’s not ready to hear the truth.
Her brows draw together. “With who?”
“Some bad people.”
“There was more than one? Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No.”
I go to move around her, but she grabs hold of my elbow. “Did it have anything to do with the raid on the Steel Reapers clubhouse?”
I let out a long breath and scrub my hand down my face. “Don’t ask questions you’re not going to like the answer to.”
Her grip tightens, not painfully, just insistent. “I’m already not liking the answers you’re giving.”
I meet her eyes, and for a moment, neither of us moves. The kitchen feels too small, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
“You were there.”
“For the raid? No.”
“Then who did you get into a fight with?”
“It wasn’t exactly a fight.”
“Did it involve the Steel Reapers?”
“Yes.”
“Mick?”
“No.”
“Razor?”
“I have no idea who that is.”
“He was one of the guys who came to my work looking for Mick.”
I shake my arm out of her hold and keep moving towards the table. She doesn’t need to know what I’ve done.
“It was him, wasn’t it? And the other guy?”
“If someone threatens you, Emily, then I’ll deal with it.”
It isn’t an omission, not really, but it’s not a lie either. It’s enough of the truth that she can stitch the missing pieces together on her own.
I wait for her to say something else, but she doesn’t. She simply follows me back to the dining room, calmly places her mug of tea on the table, and leaves.
I take a seat, trying to act unbothered, but I am. The chair feels too hard beneath me, the room too still. The silence she left behind sits heavier than any words she could’ve thrown my way.
She only has assumptions to go on, but I imagine she’s disgusted with me.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath as I pick up my fork, but the last thing I feel like doing now is eating. That heavy, sinking feeling in my stomach won’t let up. I stare at the plate without really seeing it.
She left so calmly. Too calmly.
Did she finally see enough to realise who I am? I’m not a good man. I’m no better than the cocksucker she ran from, but one thing she may not realise is I’d never lay a finger on her. She is safe here. She is safe with me. She always will be. I’ve never hurt a woman, no matter how angry I’ve been.
I grind my back teeth together as my jaw tightens. I probably should go in search of her and tell her exactly that, but I don’t. What’s the point? Maybe it’s better that she realises I’m a monster sooner rather than later.
Footsteps approach before I can sink any deeper into despair, and I look up just as Emily re-enters the room. There’s a small first aid kit tucked against her side like she never questioned coming back.
Her eyes meet mine for a split second as she crosses the room without hesitation. My gaze follows her automatically, helplessly, until she stops beside me and sets the kit on the table.
She doesn’t take her old seat across from me. Instead, she pulls out the chair next to mine and sits close enough that I can feel the warmth of her shoulder even though we’re not touching.
She draws in a quiet breath. “Give me your hand.”
I blink at her. “Em—”
“I’m not asking what you did,” she says, her voice soft but immovable. “I’m asking you to let me clean your wounds.”
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.
Slowly, reluctantly, I unclench the fist I didn’t know I’d been making, and set my bruised, battered hand on the table between us.
She reaches for it, carefully, like she’s afraid she’ll hurt me, not like she’s afraid of me. And the tight, leaden weight in my stomach shifts, cracking just enough to let something else through. Something I don’t have a name for. Something that, if I’m honest, scares the fucking shit out of me.