Chapter 10 Amelia #2
She searched his face for vestiges of regret. His jaw—sharp and well-defined—set firm in a scowl, and the weight of his gaze had changed, but Amelia couldn’t define the delta. Curiosity, maybe; questions that sizzled on the tongue but expired there too.
With blood-stained fingers, he scratched at the dark stubble peppering his chin.
“Amelia Havick,” he said with false reverie that mocked her outright. “I’m sure Cal is proud; his baby girl following in his footsteps all the way to Harvard.”
The irony deserved laughter Amelia couldn’t manage. She found some nerve and held her head high when it mattered most.
“That information isn’t hard to find,” she said, but a tremor ran through the declaration that popped like a sad balloon.
Emory conceded with a wry smile. Amelia couldn’t discern the faint scar on his lip in the low light but searched for it as if it might lead her back to his good graces; that moment they shared as strangers and his touch warm against her skin.
“You’re right, except you backed out. You’re nothing like him, never could be.
Where are you heading again? Arizona? You want your freedom, an escape, a place to hide and pretend this never happened.
I saw you at the party and you know what I thought?
Lost. You looked lost. No one and nowhere to belong to.
Why else were you so eager to touch yourself for me?
You need someone to claim you, make you whole. Is that it?”
His statements calcified and pelted her like rocks, one after the other, until the last few crushed like boulders. Tears surfaced, not for fear but humiliated exposure. He might as well have stripped her naked and read her like a poem, the ones she’d written, but never shared, the ones buried deep.
Voyeur to her misery, Emory watched her cry. He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. Tattoos inked the outside and inside of his thick biceps. Beneath them, a collection of long, thin scars had healed and marred the images that adorned his skin.
“Your old man isn’t the only one keeping tabs. I keep up with him too.”
Amelia licked the tears off her lips and let the rest dry on her cheeks. She could unravel later. Now wasn’t the time.
“He isn’t like Richard,” she said. “He won’t have the kind of money you’re looking for.”
Emory’s brows lifted with genuine surprise. “You think I wanna ransom you? No, that’s not why you’re here.”
“Why then?”
His gaze roamed her body, peeling back layers again with cutting precision. Something like fondness softened his eyes momentarily, that gauziness of sweet recollection. On him, it just looked deadly. Amelia yanked on Brian’s sweater to cover more of her thighs. Emory smiled at that.
“You tell me. Something was off last night. I know you felt it. The people who shouldn’t have been there, the ones watching you. It’s why you ran, wasn’t it? Anyone else would’ve gone home, but you ran. Why?”
Faltering again beneath his unremitting gaze, Amelia said nothing.
“Residual haunts,” he answered for her, plucking the words from her lips, though she had no intention of speaking them. “Burt and his big, bad secret. Nice of him to offload it onto you. He didn’t kill himself, by the way. The Velascos murdered him.”
Still comfortably seated with a smirk, Emory observed her closely. She meant to rob him of the reaction he wanted, but she was easy to read in the best of times, and it seemed Emory Holt had a knack for laying her bare.
Amelia steadied her breath and looked away, but it only stoked his curiosity. Emory leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees.
“You don’t look surprised. To most people, that’d be shocking news. Not you. Why is that?”
It didn’t matter how little she gave. He already knew how she wore shock and horror, the way it stole her breath and painted her face. Amelia cleared her throat and clung to the lie for dear life.
“I didn’t know he was murdered.”
“But you suspected it. The way it happened, the timing. It didn’t add up. Burt uncovered something important enough that the Velascos wanted him dead. Whatever it was, you know it too.”
They arrived at the heart of the matter, and Amelia stood trapped in a minefield at the center. One move too sudden, he’d blow the lid. She pursed her lips and shook her head.
“I don’t. I was just his intern.”
Emory slid to the edge of his seat, and his long fingers stretched as if he considered placing a hand on her knee.
He dipped his head to force her stare, but Amelia refused.
Still, he dominated her downturned vision.
She glimpsed the ropes of defined muscle slatting his forearms and recognized the subtle sweetness of his cologne.
Ensnared once more, her eyes flicked to him, but they weren’t on even ground. He was beautiful and awful, and she was a terrified mess. Amelia looked away and sunk back in her chair until the spindles dug into her spine.
“Look at me,” Emory rasped.
She obeyed but focused on how the dim light played against his cheekbones.
“You know, and you’re here because you’re gonna open up and show me all those secrets you have inside.”
Worse than his explosive anger was the slow simmer of a dangerous man and the calm that slackened his voice to a gravelly whisper. If only exhaustion could turn her fear into flippant resignation.
The closest she came was indignation. Amelia’s dirty fingernails dug into her palms. She held the tension in her body until it was tight as a bow.
“Why would I tell you anything?”
“Because you know who I am.”
“I don’t,” she lied again.
“You do. Say it.”
Amelia’s heart pumped with a fresh flush of adrenaline. “Emory Holt.”
Studious in his fascination, he watched the way his name left her lips then settled back with a satisfied smile.
“I know more than just your name,” Amelia added defiantly. “My dad told me about the things you do.”
Emory sipped his drink with a bitter laugh. “I’m sure he did, sweetheart, but you don’t fucking know me.”
And he intended to keep it that way. He’d know every intimate inch of her being, but she could never hope to do the same. Her fear, intrigue, and desire for him unraveled and gave way to loathing.
Amelia hated his certainty, his stoic composure that claimed the upper hand, the handsome smile still soft on his lips. She summoned her bravery and pummeled him with the dirty truth, the ways she knew precisely who he was.
“I know you had something to do with what happened last night and the innocent people who died at that party. I know you had Brian killed, and I know you’ll do the same to me. I know enough to know what kind of man you are.”
Smile wiped clean, Emory slammed his drink to the table and looked like he might come across it to beat her bloody all over again.
Good.
She’d make it easy.
Amelia gripped the armrests and shifted to the edge of her seat. Emory did the same with cheeks flame red and chest heaving. He opened his mouth to unleash vitriol, but Liam lifted a hand to intervene.
“Okay. Enough.” Liam shed his placidity as he turned to Amelia. “Think twice before you sling accusations like that. We had nothing to do with last night. How dare you accuse us of something so heinous.”
“I saved your life,” Emory added. “A little gratitude would look good on you.”
Amelia’s eyes shifted between the two men, stunned at the absolute absurdity of their demands.
She understood now her father’s chimerical dream for the hard hand of justice to squeeze out the Moriartys’ last breath.
For the past few years, he’d chased down a man who eluded him at every turn.
Amelia sat in front of that same man and pegged him for more than just his name.
“You’re a monster.”
Hands on his knees, Emory’s knuckles flushed white, though he didn’t stir. His visage darkened as if a shadow passed over, but he spoke quietly for only the room to hear because someone hovered outside the alcove’s veil.
“You don’t know what a true monster is, the kind who want to rip you apart and watch you suffer through every breath, the kind who want you, specifically, Amelia Havick.
I’ll happily send you to them and we’ll see then if you still think I’m a monster.
I don’t give a fuck what happens to you, if you live or die. ”
He leveled his furious gaze at her, and Amelia’s chest tightened, but she didn’t look away. She also didn’t take Liam’s advice to mind Emory’s temper because there was a glaring flaw in his fuming diatribe.
“If I’m nothing to you, then why come after me?”
Emory’s lip twitched and nostrils flared. The longer Amelia refused to kowtow, the more incensed he became. If that was her only stand, she’d take it.
Tension infused the space between them, and the room stifled with rising heat. Locked at the eyes, neither looked away. Someone had to back down.
It wouldn’t be her.
She refused.
So did he.
“Answer me,” Amelia demanded and leaned in close. “Emory Holt,” she added, soft and artificially sweet.
Brows furrowed, he looked equally confused and aroused.
“Don’t play that game with me,” Emory warned and met her ingress with just a sliver of space between them. “You won’t like how it ends.”
“You don’t know what I like.”
“Then let me find out.” With a lick of his lips, he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “You gonna eat your words, baby?”
Head swimming, Amelia’s heart nearly pounded out of her chest. The pulse at Emory’s neck fluttered just the same. It was madness, a foray with fire, and they’d both go down in flames.
Amelia tipped her chin and uncrossed her legs. “Are you?”
“Sit on my face and let’s find out,” he fired back with a wicked grin and stared between her bare thighs. “I hear I’m great at eating pussy.”
Amelia opened her mouth. She meant to refuse, to tell him he was disgusting and awful and she’d never let him go down on her or anywhere for that matter. Nothing came, though. No clever comeback or staunch refusal; just Emory’s husky laugh, so evidently amused at leaving her speechless.
A woman breezed into the alcove on a rhythmic click of heels. Mouth agape, her amber eyes bounced between Amelia and Emory.
“What the fuck happened? She looks like hell.” The woman gently squeezed Amelia’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey, but you do.”
Slim and tall, the woman looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her jet-black hair—pin-straight and glossy—fell to mid-back, and heavy, blunt bangs framed her heart-shaped face done up with winged eyeliner and red lipstick.
“Damon,” she said and pointed a red-manicured finger at Emory. “I told you not to trust that psycho. You’re too goddamn stubborn for your own good, Em.”
Liam chuckled, and Emory didn’t argue but pushed from his seat and collected his gun.
“Take her upstairs. I’ll come get her after shadow walk.”
Emory loomed over Amelia but waited to speak until she acknowledged him. If that were the condition, they’d be there all night. With a massive hand, he roughly gripped her chin and tipped her head to meet his stare.
“We’re not done,” he said on a smoldering hush. “In the meantime, you’d better decide what your life is worth to you.”
Emory released her and disappeared beyond the curtain. Though out of sight, his presence and warning were still very much felt.