3. Emma #2
I am twenty years old again, paralyzed by a gunshot loud enough to bring half the neighborhood to its windows. There is blood spreading across my bedroom floor. Mark is down. Liam is eight years old and screaming from far away, too frightened even to cry.
Then the agents are rushing us outside before dawn.
Black FBI vehicles wait at the curb with their lights off. Someone pushes Liam into the back seat while another agent tells me not to look behind us.
Leave everything.
Do not call anyone.
Do not use your name.
Run.
My lungs lock.
I grip the edge of the counter and try to breathe through it.
One.
Two.
Three.
It does not help.
A beam of light cuts through the hallway.
“Belle?”
Alex’s voice.
The light from his phone sweeps into the kitchen and finds me standing rigid beside the sink.
“I’m here.”
He rounds the corner.
The flashlight catches him from below, sharpening his cheekbones and throwing shadows across his face. His suit jacket is damp at the shoulders. Rain darkens his hair at the temples.
Then the backup generator groans somewhere below us.
Thin emergency lights flicker on along the floor and beneath the kitchen cabinets. The elevator and essential systems may have power, but the penthouse remains dim, stripped of its usual warmth.
Alex lowers his phone.
His gaze moves from my face to the burned match in the sink, then to my hand locked around the counter.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
My voice comes out too quickly.
I force my fingers away from the marble and fold the dishcloth, though there is nothing to clean. The corners refuse to line up.
Bee appears from beneath the dining table and makes straight for Alex.
Defector.
She winds around his ankles, brushing her side against his trousers as though he has returned solely for her benefit.
Alex barely notices.
He is still watching me.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrow.
I set the cloth down with more care than it deserves.
“Maintenance will handle the outage,” he says. “The generator is running the elevators, security and emergency lighting. The main power may take a few hours.”
“Okay.”
“You should go to your room.”
I look toward the hallway.
The emergency strips do not reach far. Shadows gather between the doorways, turning the corridor into a long black tunnel.
I take one step.
Then another.
My feet stop.
The darkness waits ahead of me, and suddenly I can see the pool of blood again. Liam’s small hand trapped in mine. Men in dark jackets pushing us toward a car while every instinct screamed that leaving home meant never coming back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Belle.”
My throat closes around the next lie.
I cannot make myself move.
Alex crosses to the opposite side of the island. He does not come closer. He leans back against the counter, leaving several feet between us.
“You don’t like the dark.”
It is not a question.
I keep my eyes on the marble.
The wind howls outside. Rain sheets across the windows, erasing most of the city. Lightning flashes through the glass, turning Alex into a silhouette before the dim emergency lights settle over him again.
He does not tell me I am being irrational.
He does not ask what happened.
He simply stays.
My breathing begins to ease.
That makes something inside me ache.
The man keeping me prisoner is also the only reason I can breathe.
The contradiction has been sitting beneath my ribs since he brought me here. Tonight, I am too frightened and too tired to keep holding it down.
“What am I even doing here?”
Alex stills.
“You know why.”
“Your revenge.”
I look up and meet his eyes across the kitchen.
“I know the official explanation. I’m asking what you’re actually doing.”
His expression closes.
For a moment, I think he will order me back to my room and end the conversation.
Instead, he says, “I knew when I brought you here.”
“And now?”
Silence.
The storm pushes at the windows.
Alex looks away first.
“I don’t know anymore.”
The admission is so quiet I almost lose it beneath the rain.
“You wanted me to suffer.”
“Yes.”
“Am I?”
His eyes return to mine.
“Suffering enough?”
His jaw flexes.
“No.”
The word hollows something inside me.
“What would be enough?”
He stares at me as though he has been asking himself the same question and hates every answer.
“I don’t think there is an enough.” His voice roughens. “That’s the problem.”
The emergency lights flicker.
He pushes away from the counter. He moves slowly enough that I could leave. My back meets the edge of the island as he stops in front of me.
Close enough that I have to tilt my head to see him. Close enough that the smell of rain on his coat and the cedar of his cologne fill each breath.
He places one hand on the counter beside my hip.
Not touching me.
Caging me all the same.
My pulse jumps.
This is the man who dragged me here. The man who wants to punish me for a death I did not cause.
But my body remembers someone else.
Montana. His hands in my hair. His mouth against mine. The way he used to kiss me as though nothing beyond my skin deserved his attention. My body does not differentiate between the two versions, though.
Alex’s gaze drops to my mouth.
The air shifts between us.
I should slide sideways. There is enough space if I turn.
I stay where I am.
His free hand rises.
Slowly.
His knuckles hover beside my face before his fingers open. The backs of them brush my cheek, so lightly I could pretend it did not happen.
I cannot pretend I do not feel it everywhere.
His palm settles against the side of my face. His thumb moves under my eye. I lean into him. The movement is slight. Instinctive.
Alex inhales sharply. His hand tightens at my waist, fingers curving around my side, anchoring me against him.
Heat travels through the thin fabric between his palm and my skin. My hands remain flat against the counter because if I lift them, I will touch him. I will catch the front of his shirt and pull him to me.
His forehead almost touches mine.
“Tell me to step back.” His voice is low and unsteady.
I look at his mouth. “I can’t.”
His thumb stops against my cheek. “Why not?”
Because there has been no one else, and I’ve spent years trying to forget you and failed. And right now the man who claims to hate me is holding my face as if I am something breakable, and I am so starved for tenderness I could mistake one careful touch for forgiveness.
“Because I’m as bad at this as you are.”
His fingers tighten once at my waist. His head lowers.
My lips part before I can stop them.
Alex sees.
His pupils widen until the gray-blue of his eyes nearly disappears.
He moves closer.
His breath touches my mouth.
One inch.
Less.
My hands leave the counter and catch in the front of his shirt.
The sound he makes is quiet and rough.
His second hand comes down beside my other hip, trapping me fully between his body and the marble. His chest brushes mine with every breath.
I want his mouth on me.
The wanting is no longer memory. It is here, hot and immediate, pulling low in my stomach.
Alex’s nose grazes mine.
Then his phone vibrates against his pocket.
He freezes.
The sound cuts through the kitchen.
For one second, he does not move. His hand remains at my waist. Mine stay clenched in his shirt.
Then he jerks back. I release his shirt.
The loss of his body leaves me bereft.
He pulls out his phone. The screen throws harsh blue light across his face.
His breathing is still uneven when he reads the message. “Main power should return in twenty minutes.”
His voice is flat again.
He puts the phone away but does not look at me.
“Go to your room.”
“Alex—”
“Now, Belle.”
The word cracks.
His hands close into fists at his sides.
The shadows in the hallway no longer frighten me. Not compared to what almost happened in the kitchen. I walk away before I can turn around and ask him to finish it.
Bee follows me into the bedroom and jumps onto the mattress. I sit beside her because my knees no longer trust me. She presses against my thigh, warm and solid.
I touch my cheek where Alex’s palm rested.
My skin still feels hot.
The storm continues beyond the windows, but I barely hear it. All I can hear is his voice.
Tell me to step back.
I should be relieved that he did.
Instead, I lie beside Bee in the dark and wonder what would happen if we both stopped fighting whatever is still alive between us.
Twenty minutes later, the main power returns. The bedside lamp flares to life. The air-conditioning hums. The penthouse becomes bright and ordinary again, as though nothing happened.
Down the hall, Alex’s office door closes.
Tomorrow, we will pretend none of this ever happened.
Two days later, the black sedan appears.
I’m at the kitchen window, chopping vegetables for dinner, when I notice the car.
It’s parked across from the entrance, three spaces beyond the loading zone. Tinted windows. Texas plates.
I don’t remember seeing it this morning when I cleared away the breakfast dishes.
The knife slows beneath my hand.
It could belong to anyone. People park on this street all day. Not every unfamiliar car is a threat, and not every shadow belongs to someone from Accord.
I’m looking for danger because I expect to find it.
That doesn’t mean it’s there.
I push the car out of my mind and concentrate on dinner.
Most nights, the food goes cold before I give up waiting and put it in the refrigerator. But sometimes Alex comes home on time. He sits at the table and insists I eat with him, watching until I clear enough of my plate to satisfy him.
My traitorous mind has started looking forward to those evenings.
Tonight is no different.
I’ve been cooking for more than two hours, listening for the elevator and hoping he walks through the door before everything gets cold.
When I glance through the window again, the sedan is still there.
That is what finally bothers me.
Cars come and go constantly on this street. People run errands, make deliveries, and stop for meetings.
But this one hasn’t moved in over two hours.
Alex walks in without taking off his jacket.