Chapter Twenty-Three Emmy
Chapter Twenty-Three
Emmy
Darkness crashes into me without warning, crushing the breath from my lungs.
I’m slammed back against something solid, warm in a way that feels wrong, unmovable in a way that makes my stomach drop.
My heart detonates in my chest, panic tearing through me so violently my vision fractures at the edges.
This is it. This is the mistake that ends me.
A presence looms close, too close.
“Quiet,” a voice murmurs into my ear, low, measured, terrifyingly gentle. “Little Heaven.”
My body goes rigid, every muscle locking at once. Not because I feel safe. Because I know exactly who’s holding me.
A breath ghosts my neck, deliberate and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. The hand covering my mouth loosens slightly, not enough to free me, only enough to remind me that every breath I take is something he’s allowing.
His other arm clamps around my waist, iron-hard, anchoring me in place. There’s no room to twist, no space to run. He’s not restraining me out of panic or anger, he’s controlling me because he can.
“I told you not to leave,” he says quietly, his words settling into my bones.
“Khai,” I whisper against his palm, my voice trembling despite my effort to steady it.
Silence.
His breathing remains calm, even, unnervingly controlled. He doesn’t need to rush. He already has me. His presence presses in from every side, heavy and inescapable, a reminder that I never truly disappeared from his reach.
“I told you not to leave,” he repeats, the softness stripped away this time. There’s something sharp underneath now, something final. A promise. A warning.
The fear doesn’t disappear.
It mutates, coiling tighter, sharpening into something volatile.
I shove at his chest, twisting just enough to face him, my pulse still hammering violently in my throat. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss. “You scared me. I thought,”
He cuts me off by pulling me closer, not rough, not gentle, decisive. His forehead rests briefly against mine, his presence overwhelming, caging me in without needing force.
I recoil, planting my palms against his chest, forcing what little distance I can manage between us. “You don’t get to do that,” I snap, anger burning through the last of the shock. “You don’t get to grab me like that and decide,”
“I don’t get to decide?” His jaw tightens, the calm cracking just enough to reveal something dangerous underneath. “You. Left.”
“I went to work.”
His eyes don’t leave mine. “After I told you not to.”
A sharp, incredulous laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You don’t own me, Khai.”
Something flickers in his gaze at that, dark, unreadable, and gone too quickly to understand. But the air shifts, thickening, the silence stretching taut between us like a wire pulled too tight.
“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t.”
He steps closer anyway, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the weight of his attention pressing down on me. “But don’t confuse that with thinking you’re out of my reach.”
“You’re mine,” he says slowly.
His hands settle at my waist, firm and unrelenting, fingers biting through the thin fabric as if he needs the proof of me there. “And you’re mine to protect.”
“That’s not protection,” I snap, my voice sharp despite the way my pulse stutters. “That’s control.”
Silence stretches between us, thick, volatile. My eyes have finally adjusted to the dark, and I catch the way his jaw tightens, the slow drag of his tongue across his bottom lip as if he’s restraining something barely leashed.
He leans in again, stopping just short of touching me. Close enough that his breath brushes my cheek, close enough that retreat feels impossible.
“When I got back and you weren’t there,” he says quietly, each word measured, “I nearly lost control.”
He exhales, steadying himself. “When I found out you were at work, I needed to see you. To know you were untouched. That no one had gotten to you first.”
First.
The word echoes, sharp and unsettling.
“That may be control,” he continues, his voice dropping, edged with something raw. “But protecting you is the only thing I can control.”
His grip tightens at my waist, just enough to make the message unmistakable. I know tomorrow there will be marks. Evidence. A reminder.
Not of safety.
Of possession.
I meet his gaze and almost wish I hadn’t.
There’s pain there, raw and unguarded, laced with fury and something deeper, something I can’t name but feel all the same. It coils tight in my chest, warning me that whatever he’s holding back is far worse than what he’s showing.
“Why,” I whisper, my voice barely steady, “do I need protecting?”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then he draws in a slow, deliberate breath, like he’s bracing himself.
“I’m taking you home.”
Not a question. Not a suggestion. A decision already made.
“Khai,” I say, sharper now. “You still haven’t answered me.”
“Not here.”
That’s all he gives me.
His hands leave my waist, the sudden absence almost disorienting, until the door swings open and cold air rushes in. Before I can react, his grip closes around my wrist, firm and unyielding.
“Hey,”
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look back. He pulls me out of the confined space and into the hospital corridor, his hold relentless, his silence louder than any threat.
He doesn’t release me as I collect my things from the nurses’ station. His grip remains firm, guiding, a constant reminder that this isn’t a choice he’s allowing me. I move on instinct alone, hands shaking as I gather my bag, acutely aware of every second that passes under his watchful stillness.
He keeps hold of me as we head toward the lifts, his stride long and purposeful, mine uneven as I’m pulled along in his wake. We pass Tate and Ryan mid-conversation in the hallway. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter, doesn’t acknowledge them at all.
I manage a quick wave to Tate, brittle and forced. Her eyebrow lifts in mild disbelief, almost comical, before she waves back, unaware, or perhaps wisely pretending to be.
The lift doors slide shut behind us with a soft, final click.
He says nothing.
His grip shifts then, loosening from my wrist only to lace his fingers through mine, threading us together with deliberate intent. His hand tightens, not comforting, not cruel, simply unbreakable.
Still, he doesn’t speak.
In the car park, he opens the passenger door for me and guides me inside. He buckles me in himself, movements efficient, practiced, unsettlingly familiar. Then he closes the door and walks around the front of the truck without a word.
The engine roars to life.
He pulls out too fast, tyres shrieking against concrete as we tear out of the parking lot, the sound echoing behind us like a warning left too late.
And as the hospital disappears in the rear-view mirror, I realise this silence is not mercy.
It’s restraint.
His hands are locked tight around the steering wheel, knuckles pale, jaw set. His eyes never leave the road. Every muscle in him looks coiled, restrained by force of will alone.
I hesitate, then reach out, resting my hand against his arm. I give it a tentative squeeze, as if testing how close I can get before something snaps.
“What’s going on, Khai?” I ask quietly, keeping my voice level. Calm feels like the only weapon I have left.
He glances at me, just once. There’s too much in that look. Then his attention is back on the road, the silence swallowing my question whole.
Slowly, I pull my hand away.
I fold my arms over my chest and turn toward the window, staring out into the blur of passing lights. Fine. If he wants silence, I can survive that too.
Then the streets start to look wrong.
My stomach tightens as I register the turn he takes. The next one confirms it.
“You said you were taking me home,” I say, snapping my head back toward him.
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile, something colder. Amused. Certain.
“I am,” he replies, a quiet chuckle slipping out. “My home.”
“I want to go to my apartment.”
“No.”
The single word lands heavy, final.
“Why, Khai?” I demand.
He flicks his gaze to me briefly, eyes dark, unreadable. “Because I want you in my house.”
The ease with which he says it is what unnerves me most.
“I don’t have anything with me,” I argue, exhaling sharply. “No clothes. None of the things I need.”
“That won’t be a problem,” he says smoothly. “My men can collect whatever you want from your apartment.”
Then, without looking at me, he adds, “But you’re coming home with me.”
There’s no room for negotiation. No space left to push back.
All I can do is stare at him, shock buzzing under my skin, as the road stretches on, carrying me somewhere I didn’t agree to, but can no longer stop.
It doesn’t take long before the truck disappears underground, swallowed by the shadows of his building’s private parking garage. The engine cuts off, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.
He gets out first.
Just like before, he comes around to my side and opens the door himself, offering his hand as if the gesture alone makes this anything other than what it is. I hesitate only a second before taking it, letting him guide me down from the truck.
He doesn’t let go.
His fingers wrap around mine, firm, unyielding, like he’s afraid the moment he releases me I’ll bolt, or worse, vanish entirely. The thought settles uneasily in my chest.
We ride the lift in silence, the doors sliding shut with a soft thud that feels far too final. The ascent stretches on, each floor ticking past as the tension tightens. He stands close, his presence crowding the small space, saying nothing, giving nothing away.
When the lift finally opens into his penthouse, the quiet follows us inside.
The door closes behind us with a muted click.
That’s when my patience finally snaps.
I turn to him, exhaustion and unease tangling together until I can barely tell them apart. “Why,” I ask, my voice low but steady, “do I need protecting, Khai?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with everything he still hasn’t said.
And for the first time since he took me from the hospital, I get the sense that the answer, when it comes, is going to change everything.