Chapter Eleven Emmy
Chapter Eleven
Emmy
I didn’t go home after the café. Not after that, not after what was supposed to be a date.
Instead, I walked back through the hospital car park, climbed into my car, and drove straight to Tate’s. I needed somewhere to unload, somewhere safe enough to say the things I didn’t yet understand myself.
Because the entire time I sat across from Ryan, trying to be present, trying to enjoy the easy conversation and the normalcy of it all, my thoughts kept betraying me. They drifted, no, they gravitated, back to Khai.
His intense gaze.
His hands on my body.
The way his voice drops when he whispers, sending shivers down my spine like a promise and a threat all at once.
I hate how my body reacts to him. How it turns traitor the moment he’s near. I barely know the man, if I’m honest, I don’t know him at all, but my body, my soul, responds as if it’s always known him. As if it’s been waiting.
I told Tate what I could. Not because I didn’t want to tell her more, but because I didn’t know how. How do you explain a pull that has no logic? A connection that makes no sense but feels inevitable?
She listened quietly, then told me Ryan was the safe choice. Steady. Predictable. Someone who wouldn’t ruin me.
Khai, she said, could be my reckoning.
Maybe he is.
Because even knowing that, knowing I should be scared, cautious, anything but curious, I still feel myself drawn to him. Like standing too close to the edge of something dangerous, knowing one wrong step could destroy me…
…and not stepping back would anyway.
By the time I reach the second floor of my apartment building, exhaustion has settled deep into my bones. Every step feels heavier than the last, my body lagging behind my thoughts. It’s been a long day, too long, and all I want is silence, heat, and sleep strong enough to erase it.
The building is quiet, wrapped in that late-night stillness where every door is shut and every life hidden away behind walls.
Motion lights flicker on as I pass, casting brief pools of white across the hallway before slipping back into darkness.
The new security cameras are still there too, small, discreet, tucked just out of obvious sight. Watching. Always watching.
I stop in front of my door and rest my forehead against the cool wood, exhaling slowly as I fumble through my bag. My fingers are clumsy, tired, desperate to find my keys. I just want to get inside. A hot shower. My bed. The world shut out.
Finally, metal brushes my fingertips. Relief.
I slide the key into the lock and twist, and that’s when I notice it. A faint smudge of red along the brass. Barely there. Easy to miss.
I frown, my exhaustion dulling the warning that should probably follow. Must’ve gotten some blood on it the other night, I tell myself, dismissing the thought as quickly as it comes.
The lock clicks.
And somewhere beneath my fatigue, something tightens, quiet, instinctive, as if my body knows a truth my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
I step into my apartment and let the door close softly behind me.
Darkness greets me, thick, heavy, broken only by the faint glow of the kitchen appliances and the steady red standby light of the television in the living room.
I don’t bother turning on the overhead lights. I’m too tired for brightness.
The deadbolt slides into place with a solid click. Final.
I move farther inside, the open-plan space stretching out before me like a void. I drop my keys onto the kitchen counter; the sharp clatter echoes louder than it should in the empty apartment. The sound makes me exhale slowly, tension leaking from my shoulders as I head toward the living area.
My bag lands on one of the armchairs with a dull thud. I reach for the freestanding lamp beside it, fingers brushing the switch.
I flick it on.
And freeze.
A scream claws up my throat, raw and instinctive, but I swallow it down with effort, my heart slamming so hard it hurts.
Because he’s there.
Khai sits in the armchair by the window like he’s always belonged in it, slouched back, knees spread, long legs stretched out with infuriating ease.
One arm props his head up, the other cradles a glass of clear liquid that catches the lamplight.
His gaze lifts to meet mine, dark and unreadable, as if he’s been waiting.
Waiting for me.
“This vodka is shit,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to vibrate through the silence, almost too soft to hear.
Almost.
The room feels suddenly smaller. Warmer. Charged.
“What are you, how did you, why… what are you doing here?”
The questions tumble out of me, broken and breathless, tripping over each other as my pulse roars in my ears.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he lifts his head slowly, deliberately, until those icy blue eyes lock onto mine.
And that’s when I see it, the thin trail of blood at the corner of his mouth, another seeping from just above his eyebrow.
Bruises are already blooming along his jaw, dark against his skin.
Evidence of something violent. Something recent.
Something he carried here.
He studies me in silence, his gaze unhurried as it drags over every inch of me, my face, my body, the way I’m standing there frozen in my own living room.
It feels like being stripped bare. When his eyes finally return to mine, I can’t look away.
I’m caught. Held captive by the weight of his attention.
I don’t know why I move closer. I just do.
My steps are slow, measured, until I’m standing right in front of him, my knee nearly brushing his. I lean down slightly and take the glass from his hand without asking, without breaking eye contact.
I drink.
The vodka burns as it slides down my throat, sharp and unforgiving. A little spills, tracing a path over my lip and down my chin. My thumb lifts instinctively, wiping it away with careful precision.
His eyes follow the movement. Every second of it.
The air between us thickens, charged with things unsaid, with pain and want and something far more dangerous than desire.
“What happened to you?”
The words leave me barely louder than a breath. I’m not even sure he hears them.
He drags his tongue across his lower lip, a quiet wince following when it catches the cut there. “Father dearest,” he murmurs at last, the words weighted with something bitter and old. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing himself closer, too close.
I inhale slowly. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from him, feel it sink into my skin like a second pulse.
“Why?” I whisper again. I don’t know why I lower my voice, only that it feels instinctive, like sudden movements might send him slipping back into the shadows. Not that anything truly frightens a man like him.
His hand lifts. Slowly. Deliberately.
His fingers skim my calf, feather-light, barely there, and yet the contact sends a jolt straight through me, sharp and undeniable. My breath stutters. His touch lingers, tracing lazy circles against my skin as if he’s marking territory.
“Because he could,” he says quietly. “Because he wanted to remind me who’s in charge.”
His fingers keep moving. Unhurried. Possessive.
Then my gaze catches on the blood at his eyebrow again, the bruising along his jaw, and the spell snaps. I step back too quickly, breaking the contact, the sudden absence of his touch almost painful.
“I, I’m going to get my first-aid kit,” I say, gesturing toward his face. “Let me clean that up.”
He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t move. Just watches me as I retreat, his presence following me all the way to the bathroom.
I crouch beneath the sink and pull the kit free, then pause. Before I go back to the living room, to the man who has more control over my body than I want to admit, I brace my hands against the porcelain edge of the sink and breathe. Deep. Slow.
My knuckles are white, my grip too tight.
Why does he make me this nervous? Why does being near him feel like standing too close to something dangerous and magnetic at the same time?
I lift my head and stare at my reflection, heart racing.
He’s a pull I don’t understand. A gravity I can’t escape.
I draw in another steadying breath, grip the first-aid kit tighter than necessary, and step back into the living room. He hasn’t moved. Not an inch.
His gaze lifts the moment he sees me, locking onto mine with that same quiet intensity. It sends a shiver straight down my spine. I close the distance between us slowly, deliberately.
“May I?” I ask softly, gesturing toward his face.
He gives a single nod. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I drag the coffee table closer and perch on the edge of it, settling myself between his spread legs. The proximity is dizzying. Too close. Or maybe not close enough. I open the kit with careful hands, my pulse loud in my ears.
And then I hesitate.
Because this means touching him. Really touching him. This man who feels like danger wrapped in temptation, who looks like sin and smells faintly of smoke and something darker.
My hand hovers mid-air, gauze damp with saline, when his fingers curl around my wrist, warm, firm, unmistakably deliberate.
“Go on, then,” he murmurs, drawing my hand closer to his face.
The contact sends a spark through me, sharp and electric. I swallow hard and focus on the cut above his eyebrow, forcing myself into nurse mode, into control. I clean the wound carefully, methodically, doing everything I can to avoid his eyes.
It’s useless.
I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting, tracking every movement, every breath.
When I’m satisfied the cut is clean, I speak quietly, mostly to steady myself. “All clean. I’ll put a couple of Steri-Strips on, just to make sure it stays closed.”
I do as I say, my fingers gentle, precise. Then I set the used gauze aside and reach for a fresh one, acutely aware of how little space there is between us.
How easily I could tip forward.
How easily I could fall.
And how dangerous it would be if I did.