Chapter Twenty Khai #2
Her throat bobs. “Your father.”
I don’t say his name. I don’t need to. The shadow of him lives in the way I choose my words, in the way I don’t.
But Emmy, Emmy is too smart to let me hide behind vagueness.
“So, walking away was you trying to keep me out of it,” she says, piecing it together. “Trying to… protect me.”
“It was me trying not to put you in his line of sight,” I admit. And there it is, the crack. The sliver of fear I can’t fully bury. “Because I know what happens when something becomes leverage.”
Her voice drops, shaken. “And you think I’ll become that.”
I swallow hard.
“I think the second I stop acting like you don’t matter,” I say, “he will notice that you do.”
She stares at me, breathing shallowly. Then, softer, almost wounded,
“And you already stopped,” she whispers. “Didn’t you.”
I don’t answer.
Because I can’t.
Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t run. She stands her ground in my space, wearing my shirt, looking at me like I’m the one who’s breakable.
“I asked you if you regretted me,” she says quietly. “And you didn’t answer the part that matters.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t regret you,” I say, voice rougher now. “I regret that caring about you makes you a target.”
The words feel like admitting defeat.
Her breath shudders. “So what do you want me to do? Leave?” she asks, voice trembling. “Go home and pretend I can’t feel you everywhere?”
I stare at her. At the courage. At the ache.
And the fear returns, sharp, immediate, because now that I’ve let her in, the thought of her walking out feels like losing something that I desperately need.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I say, and the honesty in it is ugly with want. “That’s the problem.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “Then stop pushing me away like I’m fragile,” she whispers. “Stop deciding for me.”
“You don’t understand,” I warn, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “If you choose me, it won’t be safe. It won’t stay small.”
“I’m not asking for small,” she says.
“I can’t promise you peace.”
“I don’t want peace,” she answers, tears bright but unshed. “I want the truth.”
I inhale, the control in me shuddering.
“The truth,” I say, voice cracking at the edges, “is that I’m afraid.”
Her eyes widen.
I’ve never said that to anyone.
“I’m afraid,” I repeat, quieter now, rawer, “because the moment you’re mine, the world will try to take you just to prove it can. And I,” My throat tightens. “I don’t know what I’ll become if someone tries.”
The silence is thick enough to choke on.
Then Emmy takes one step forward. Just one. Closing the space.
“You don’t get to scare me out of wanting you,” she whispers. “You don’t get to make me feel disposable so you can stay in control.”
My breath comes shallow.
“This is consequences,” I say.
“I know,” she answers.
“This is exposure.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still here?”
Her voice doesn’t waver. “Yes.”
That’s when my restraint finally breaks, not into comfort, not into resolution, but into acceptance. Into the terrifying reality that she has chosen me with open eyes. And now I have to live with what that means.
She doesn’t step back.
She should. Anyone with sense would. Anyone who understood what it means to be seen by the wrong people would take one look at me and choose distance like a prayer.
Emmy doesn’t.
“I’m still here,” she says, voice shaking but steady. “And you can keep warning me, but I need you to stop treating me like I’m breakable and you’re the only one allowed to make choices.”
My throat tightens.
“Emmy,” I start, because I have a hundred reasons to end this right now. To put space between us. To send her home with a lie and call it mercy.
She shakes her head. “Don’t.”
One word. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Final.
She closes the last inch between us and kisses me.
I don’t stop her.
That’s the moment everything changes.
Her mouth is warm and certain, not asking, not testing, deciding. The choice is in the way she leans into me, the way her hands steady against my chest like she’s anchoring herself to something she already knows will pull her under.
My hands come up instinctively, catching her before she can even lose her balance. I pull her closer, and for one fractured second I let myself feel it, how right she fits, how dangerous it is that she does.
I break the kiss just long enough to look at her.
“You have no idea what you’re giving me,” I breathe, voice rough. “And once I take it, I don’t give it back.”
Her forehead rests against mine, breath shaking. “Then take it.”
The answer doesn’t calm me.
It seals her fate.
I lift her into my arms, and she clings without hesitation, trusting me with a softness that should terrify us both. The city, the balcony, the careful distance I built, all of it fades as I carry her toward the dark of the bedroom.
Each step feels like a door closing behind us.
Not locking.
Just removing the option to turn back.
I lay her down gently, reverently, like this moment deserves respect even if the world outside won’t grant us mercy. I don’t rush. I don’t pretend this is anything other than what it is, a line crossed with full awareness on both sides.
This isn’t safety.
This is exposure.
And as I bend toward her, as the night finally swallows the space between us, one thought settles with brutal clarity:
I didn’t save her.
I chose her.
And now I’ll live with whatever comes for us because of it.
Later, the penthouse is quiet in the kind of way that feels temporary.
She sleeps in my bed like she belongs there, hair fanned across the pillow, face softened by rest, breath steady. My hand finds her shoulder without thinking, stroking slow, careful lines as if touch alone can keep her anchored to the present.
Mine.
The word doesn’t feel like a victory.
It feels like a target.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, a single vibration that cuts too clean through the silence.
Jaxon:
File secured. No casualties. On my way.
Good.
The relief is sharp, but it doesn’t settle.
Because “no casualties” isn’t a promise. It’s a momentary outcome. And tonight, with her here, with my sheets holding her warmth, I can’t pretend the world stops moving just because I finally did.
I ease out of bed carefully, quiet as shadow. I don’t wake her. I can’t, if she opens her eyes and looks at me, I might not be able to leave the room at all.
At the doorway, I pause and look back.
She’s still there.
In my bed. In my space. Like she’s always belonged.
And the thought that hits, sharp, possessive, terrifying in its honesty, is this:
I don’t want her to leave.
Not tomorrow.
Not ever.
But wanting her doesn’t make her safe.
It makes her visible.
And that is where the real consequences begin.