Chapter Nine Khai
Chapter Nine
Khai
I’d been parked outside the hospital for too long, the engine ticking beneath the hood like it was counting down my sanity.
I needed to see her today, needed it in the way a wound needs air, even if it burns.
I sat in my truck, smoke curling from my lips, turning excuse after excuse over in my mind for why I should walk into the ICU and demand her presence in my line of sight.
I’d come close, too close to stabbing a pen into my thigh just to earn a reason. Pain was easy. Lying to myself was harder.
Then I didn’t need an excuse at all.
She appeared through the doors like a hallucination I’d summoned, walking beside another man.
Security, by the look of him. My hands locked around the steering wheel, grip tightening until my knuckles blanched white, until the leather groaned beneath my fingers.
I tracked her every step, every sway of her body, as if looking away might make her vanish.
And then she laughed.
She laughed.
The sound I wished was aimed for me. Who the hell was he? And why was she giving him something that belonged to me? Had she forgotten? Or did she think time and distance could erase what was already carved into her bones?
She became mine the moment her hands pressed against my bleeding chest in that nightclub, the moment my blood stained her skin. Fate was sealed right there, inked in red, written in pain. She didn’t just save me that night.
She claimed me.
And whether she remembered it or not, she was already claimed too.
I slip my phone from my pocket, the movement slow and deliberate. Before they pass my truck, I lift it just enough to capture his face, caught mid-step, unaware he’s already made a mistake. I send the photo straight to Jaxon.
Khai:
Get our tech guy on this. I want everything, name, history, secrets he doesn’t even know he’s hiding.
Jaxon:
On it, boss man.
I can practically feel the anger coming off you through the screen.
I don’t bother replying.
My attention is fixed on Emmy. My Emmy. I watch as she follows him into a nearby café, the door swallowing her whole. The glass is dark, unforgiving. I can’t see inside. Can’t see her. The denial gnaws at me, sharp and relentless.
Frustration coils tight in my chest.
I shift the truck into drive and roll forward, repositioning until I find a spot that gives me a clear view through the café window. I cut the engine and wait, eyes locked on the glass.
I don’t miss a thing. And I won’t miss him either.
They stand at the counter, waiting for their coffees. Talking. Smiling. The casual intimacy of it twists something vicious in my chest. I would give anything, anything, to have microphones planted inside that café, to hear every word he feeds her and every laugh she gives in return.
My fingers rub the worn leather of the steering wheel, thumb scraping against my index finger until the friction burns. It’s the only thing keeping my hands occupied, the only thing stopping me from punching glass or bone.
They move to a table by the window. Too close to me. Too visible. He pulls out a chair and sits nearer than necessary, invading her space like he has a right to it. Their knees brush beneath the table. Touching.
Red floods my vision.
My phone vibrates in my hand, the sudden buzz grounding and damning all at once.
Jaxon:
Name’s Ryan Steele. Thirty-one. Parents: Gwen and Harry Steele.
Hospital security, six years. Recently assigned to St John’s ICU.
Single. Clean record. No priors. Still digging.
I scan the message, but none of it does a damn thing to calm the storm inside me. It doesn’t ease the anger. It doesn’t smother the jealousy I don’t want to name but feel anyway, hot, corrosive, unforgiving.
I keep watching them, ignoring my phone as it buzzes again and again in my hand. I can’t look away from her. Won’t. As if the second I do, something irreversible will happen. As if she might slip through my fingers for good.
She’s listening to him. Engaged. Smiling. Laughing.
He says something, nothing worthy of that sound, and she laughs again, soft and unguarded. Her hand drifts across the table and comes to rest over his. Gentle. Familiar. His gaze drops instantly, hungry and unmistakable. He wets his lips, eyes lifting to hers, lingering where they don’t belong.
Something inside me fractures.
I snap.
The door of my truck slams harder than intended as I get out, moving on pure instinct, no plan formed, just heat and impulse and possession clawing its way to the surface. Cold air bites into my skin, sharp enough to clear my head for half a second.
An idea forms.
I don’t head for the café entrance. Instead, I circle around the back. The service door to the kitchen is ajar, held open by stacked milk crates filled with empty bottles, clinking softly in the breeze. An open invitation.
And I’ve never been good at ignoring those.
A young guy, barely more than a kid, probably a dish hand or some wide-eyed apprentice, freezes the moment he sees me. He’s clutching black bin bags like a shield, breath catching in his throat.
I draw my gun just enough for him to understand. I don’t aim it. I don’t have to. I press my finger to my lips in a silent warning.
Be quiet. Or else.
His eyes blow wide, fear stripping him bare. The bin bags tremble in his grip as he nods frantically, backing away from me, slipping past toward the service exit like prey that knows better than to run.
I turn my attention to the stacks of produce boxes lining the wall. This won’t be my finest moment, but I don’t care. I need her out of here. Away from him.
I tuck the gun away and move closer. I grab my lighter.
Flick it on. Let the flame kiss the boxes.
I turn to leave. Chaos sparks to life behind me, slow and deliberate, curling into something uncontrollable.
I stand there for a moment, watching it grow, watching my restraint burn away with it.
I light a cigarette, inhale deep, exhale calm.
That should do it.
As I move to leave, the kid is there again, blocking the doorway. Shocked. Shaking. Still breathing, lucky him.
I don’t reach for my weapon this time. I reach for my wallet. I pull out a thick wad of hundreds and step into his space, forcing his gaze up to mine.
“You never saw me,” I murmur, low and final, pressing the cash into his hands.
He doesn’t argue. His fingers close around the money, trembling so hard it rattles. Seconds later, he’s gone, running down the alley like the devil himself is on his heels.
I move back to my truck slowly, unhurried, listening as the fire alarm erupts behind me. The sound slices through the air, sharp and panicked, and almost immediately the café dissolves into chaos. I slide into the driver’s seat and watch it all unfold from the shadows.
My eyes find her instantly. They always do.
She turns toward the kitchen, curiosity etched across her face, brows knitting together as staff rush past her. Voices rise. Hands gesture. Then the evacuation begins. Chairs scrape. Doors swing open. And she’s moving, flowing with the crowd, closer and closer to me with every step.
She’s so close now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.
And yet she can’t see me.
The distant wail of fire engines cuts through the noise, growing louder by the second. People scatter away from the café, urgency bleeding into every movement. I stay where I am. I need this moment. I need to see it end properly.
He reaches for her.
His hand lands on her shoulder, too familiar, too possessive for my liking. His mouth moves, saying something I can’t hear. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding as I watch her reaction, dissecting every flicker of emotion on her face.
She nods.
Then she turns away from him and walks back toward the hospital.
Relief coils dark and heavy in my chest. He doesn’t follow. Instead, he lingers, stepping toward the frantic staff, saying something, offering help, no doubt. Playing the hero.
As she walks away, she glances back at the café. Just once. There’s sadness in her eyes, fleeting but unmistakable, and it tightens something brutal in my chest. I don’t like that look on her. I don’t like knowing I put it there, even if it was necessary.
I pull my phone from my pocket and fire off a message to Jaxon.
Khai:
Make a sizable donation to Café on 9.
No explanation. None needed.
Jaxon:
Will do.
Do I even want to know?
I ignore that too.
That’s when I notice the missed calls. Fifteen of them. All from the same number. My father.
Fuck.
I type out a reply with my jaw clenched.
Khai:
On my way.
I don’t wait for his response. I start the engine, the low rumble grounding me, and pull away from the curb. The café fades into my rearview mirror, the chaos behind it settling into silence.
Some debts get paid in money. Others demand blood, or obedience.
And tonight, I still have one more obligation to fulfill.