Chapter Sixteen Emmy
Chapter Sixteen
Emmy
By the time we reach my apartment, Tate is dead weight.
I practically haul her out of the cab, her head lolling against my shoulder, limbs uncooperative. She mumbles something unintelligible as I coax her up the stairs, step by step, until we reach my floor. She manages to stand just long enough for me to fumble with my keys and push the door open.
The moment we’re inside, she collapses onto the couch like gravity finally remembered her. No protests. No commentary. Just the soft, immediate sound of sleep claiming her.
I let out a tired breath. “Night, Tate.”
I slip her heels off, set them neatly by the couch, then pull a blanket over her curled form. Her breathing evens out almost instantly, soft snores filling the quiet space.
The apartment feels different now, too still, too quiet.
I switch off the light and make my way toward my bedroom, the echoes of the night following me down the hall, heavier than my exhaustion.
My bedroom greets me like a sanctuary, soft, familiar, mine. I kick off my heels the second the door closes, my feet aching, constricted, like they’ve been punished for daring to carry me through tonight. I don’t linger. I head straight for the bathroom, the need to shed the night almost urgent.
I peel the dress from my body slowly, exhaustion heavy in my limbs, and that’s when I see them.
Fingerprints.
Already darkening, already blooming into bruises along my hip. His fingertips. My breath catches as my own fingers trace the marks, reverent despite myself. They sit there on my skin like a signature. A warning. A claim.
Because that’s exactly what he did.
He claimed me. Publicly. Silently. A message whispered without words to anyone close enough to see, and it worked.
The realization ignites something hot and furious in my chest.
I tear the rest of my clothes off, scrub my makeup away, and step into the shower, cranking the water as hot as I can stand. Steam fills the room as I drag the loofah over my skin, harder than necessary, like I can scour him away if I try hard enough.
But I can’t.
Because he’s not just on my skin, he’s under it. Burrowed deep. Exactly where he wanted to be.
Images crash over me like a wave I can’t outrun, his grip, bruising and sure. His mouth on mine. The promise in his voice. And just like that, the rage fractures, warping into something far more dangerous.
Want.
The truth settles, heavy and undeniable. My body knows it, even if my mind refuses to cooperate.
I want Khai.
The admission scares me more than anything else tonight.
I stay under the water until it cools, until my skin is flushed and my thoughts are raw. When I finally step out, I pull on my favourite oversized t-shirt, the fabric soft and grounding. I brush my hair, my teeth, going through the motions like muscle memory might save me.
Then I crawl into bed, plunging the room into darkness before sliding beneath the covers.
But sleep doesn’t come easily.
Because no matter how tightly I close my eyes, I can still feel him.
I reach for my phone out of habit, needing a distraction, needing something to quiet my mind. I check my notifications, scroll aimlessly, letting the glow of the screen blur my thoughts.
Then it appears.
A new event added to my calendar.
Tomorrow.
7:59 p.m.
Khai.
I bolt upright in bed like I’ve been shocked, clutching my phone as if it might disappear if I look away for too long. I stare at the screen, waiting for it to correct itself. To vanish. To prove I’m overtired and imagining things.
“What the fuck?” I whisper aloud. “How did you get into my personal planner?”
The question hangs uselessly in the air. Because if I’m honest with myself, this shouldn’t surprise me. He found me once. Found my space. Found his way under my skin with frightening ease.
This would be child’s play for someone like him.
“Who are you, Khai?” I murmur, the question softer now, edged with something dangerous.
The realization hits a moment later, sharp and disorienting. I should be terrified. I should be panicking, deleting the event, running for the hills.
Instead, my chest loosens.
I feel… safe.
The thought is earth-shattering.
I set my phone on the charger with unsteady hands and curl beneath the covers, pulling them up like armour. I tell myself I’m done for the night. That I won’t think about him anymore.
Sleep comes faster than it should.
And when it does, he’s there too, waiting for me in the dark, exactly where he said he’d be.
Tomorrow is already counting down.
I wake to the rich smell of fresh coffee, warm and grounding. I roll onto my side, blinking blearily, and find Tate already sitting up in my bed, back against the headboard, a takeaway cup in hand like she owns the place.
“You better have one for me,” I groan, my voice rough with sleep.
She smirks. “Obviously.” She reaches over to the bedside table and hands me a cup. “You really think I’d interrogate you without caffeine?”
I huff a laugh and push myself upright, cradling the cup between my hands as I take my first sip. Salvation. I settle back against the headboard, bracing myself.
Tate watches me for a beat, then grins like she’s been waiting for this all night.
“Sooo,” she drawls. “First of all, he is hot, Em. Like, criminally hot. And that whole bad-boy thing? Devastating.” She wiggles her eyebrows for emphasis.
“I think we’ve established he’s not your average guy off the street,” I mutter, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth.
Her expression shifts, still playful, but sharper now. “Ryan never stood a chance, did he?”
The question lands heavier than I expect. My gaze drops to the coffee resting between my hands.
“Oh my god, Ryan.” I look up suddenly, guilt flashing through me. “I just… left him there.”
Tate waves it off, far too casually. “I wouldn’t worry. We may or may not have… gotten on quite well after Khai left.” She gives me a sheepish wink. “That’s okay, right?”
I stare at her for half a second before laughing softly. “Tate, of course it is. Who am I to judge after last night?” Heat creeps up my neck, memories stirring unbidden.
She studies me again, more seriously this time. “So,” she says, lowering her voice just a fraction. “The real question. Are you going to let the dark, mysterious hottie take you on that date?”
I take another slow sip of my coffee, meeting her eyes, and then deliberately look away.
Because I don’t answer.
Because I haven’t decided.
And because part of me already knows exactly how this is going to end.
After Tate leaves, I throw myself into anything that might keep my mind occupied. I clean the apartment until it smells faintly of detergent and order. I run errands I don’t strictly need to run. I even curl up with a book, forcing my eyes over words that refuse to stick.
None of it works.
Tate’s question follows me from room to room, heavy and persistent.
Are you going to let him take you on the date?
I don’t cancel.
I tell myself it’s because I won’t be dictated to. Because I won’t let him decide things for me. And if I’m honest, would he even accept me cancelling? The thought lingers, unsettling and strangely thrilling.
It’s just dinner, I insist. I won’t let him touch me. I won’t let him distract me with his scent, his presence,
His lips.
I stop short, breath hitching. “No, Emmy,” I mutter aloud, shaking my head like I can dislodge the image. I will leave when I want to. Tonight, I will be in control.
That’s the lie I cling to.
Because the truth is, I’m not afraid of the date. And I’m not afraid of Khai.
I’m afraid of how badly I want it.
And that, more than anything else, tells me I’m already standing far closer to the edge than I should be.