Chapter Twenty-Eight Emmy
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Emmy
I wake cocooned in warmth. Claimed. Sheltered.
Khai’s arms are locked around me like a promise he has no intention of breaking, his breath a slow, steady ghost against my shoulder. I turn carefully within his hold, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment, and let myself truly look at him.
The blinds were never drawn. Morning has crept in uninvited, spilling a muted, golden light across his face. It softens the sharp lines of him, tempers the darkness I know lives beneath his skin. In sleep, he looks almost harmless. Peaceful. Content. As though he doesn’t carry storms in his bones.
The sun warms my skin, gentle and forgiving, but his touch is another thing entirely.
It burns. Not painfully. Possessively. A heat that sinks deep, settling somewhere it has no right to be.
I don’t want to move. I don’t want to think.
So I close my eyes, stealing a few more seconds in this fragile, perfect stillness, a rare moment where everything feels solid, inevitable.
Where happiness doesn’t feel like a lie.
Khai shifts in his sleep. One arm stays firm around me, anchoring me there, while he rolls onto his back. Even like this, unguarded and unaware, he looks sinfully beautiful. Dangerous in the quiet way that doesn’t announce itself until it’s far too late.
He’d left me here last night, slipping away to finish whatever shadows demanded his attention. I remember how heavy my eyelids were, how deep sleep dragged me under. He must have returned long after, silent, careful, because I never felt him climb into bed.
Then it hits me.
Cold. Sudden. Merciless, like ice water poured straight down my spine.
The memory of the text surfaces through the haze of comfort, sharp enough to steal my breath. My chest tightens as I sit up slowly, carefully disentangling myself from Khai’s hold. I glance towards the bedside table where my phone lies in silent accusation, its dark screen turned face-up, waiting.
I don’t reach for it.
Not yet.
I’m not ready to see the words again, to let them sink their teeth back into me. Not ready to acknowledge the weight behind them, the intent, the threat wrapped in familiarity. I already know who sent it. I’ve known since the moment it arrived. But knowing doesn’t make it easier to face.
So, just for now, I pretend it doesn’t exist.
I slide out of bed, the sudden loss of his warmth sending a shiver through me. The room feels different without him touching me, larger, emptier, too quiet. I move through the apartment on bare feet, leaving the bedroom behind like a fragile dream I’m afraid to disturb.
Behind me, the phone remains where it is.
Watching.
I make myself a cup of coffee, standing still as the machine hums to life. The sound fills the silence, steady and mechanical. I watch as the coffee brews, drip by deliberate drip, as if time itself has slowed, stretching, waiting.
When it’s finished, I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into my palms. It grounds me. Or at least, it tries to. I turn slowly, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and take in the space around me.
Everything still feels unreal. Like I’m standing inside a half-remembered dream, edges blurred, colours muted. So much has happened in such a short span of time that my mind hasn’t caught up, my heart even less so. I feel suspended between before and after, unsure which side I belong to anymore.
My gaze drifts, slow, distracted, until it stops.
The kitchen island.
Papers are spread across it, scattered without order, covering almost every inch of the surface. My breath catches, subtle but sharp. I take a cautious step closer, then another, my coffee forgotten in my hands. I don’t touch them at first. I just look.
And then the realisation settles in.
These are the contents of the envelope.
The one that’s been haunting the edges of my thoughts since the moment I noticed it. The one Khai never explained. My pulse quickens. Curiosity coils tight in my chest, winding itself around something dangerously close to fear.
This time, I don’t fight it.
Khai has given me fragments of the truth, just enough to keep me close, just enough to keep me trusting.
But he’s been careful. Strategic. Evading the details that matter most. And standing here now, staring at the evidence of a life he keeps locked behind his eyes, I know this might be my only chance to understand who he really is.
Before I fall too far into his gravity.
Before his darkness closes around me completely.
Though, deep down, I already know, I may be in too deep already.
It’s a truth I’m not ready to face.
Not yet.
I circle the kitchen island slowly, as though approaching something that might bite. I find a small, bare patch of stone among the chaos and set my coffee down, untouched, already forgotten. Then I let my eyes roam.
There’s too much.
Photographs. Grainy and intimate, stolen moments frozen in time. Notes scribbled in tight, precise handwriting. Addresses. Timelines. Screenshots of text messages stripped of context but heavy with implication. Every piece feels deliberate. Calculated. Obsessive.
My breath turns shallow.
Then I see it.
An order.
My fingers close around the page before my mind can stop them. Khai’s name sits at the top, stark and undeniable. Below it, a date. A location. And one final word that makes the room tilt violently on its axis.
Target.
The paper slips from my grasp as a sharp gasp tears from my throat.
My heart slams against my ribs, frantic and unforgiving.
Heat rushes to my face, then drains just as quickly, leaving me cold and light-headed.
I clutch the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening as I struggle to steady my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.
It doesn’t help.
With trembling hands, I reach down and pick the paper up again. It shakes violently between my fingers, or maybe that’s me. My eyes scan the page once more, slower now, more careful. Each word lands like a blade.
And then understanding blooms, dark, absolute.
This isn’t just an order.
It’s a kill order.
The world seems to dull around the edges as the realisation sinks in, colour bleeding away until everything feels muted and unreal. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the silence.
“I manage problems.”
His voice echoes through my head, calm and controlled, as if he’d been talking about invoices or meetings. That’s what he told me. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Now I understand.
He doesn’t manage problems.
He erases them.
Makes them disappear.
Destroys them.
Kills them.
I just stand there, shaking, realising exactly how sharp his shadows truly are, and how willingly I’ve walked into them.
The world tilts.
One moment I’m standing, the next I’m not, the floor rushing up to meet me as my legs give out beneath the weight of it all.
I slide down until my back hits the kitchen island, the cold stone seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt.
I drag my knees to my chest, folding in on myself as though I can make myself smaller, quieter, invisible.
My hands fly to my head, fingers tangling in my hair as everything crashes in at once.
The club shooting.
The bodyguards posted at his hospital door. The way Khai’s eyes had followed me after shopping, sharp, assessing, possessive. The whisper to my attacker, low and lethal, promising something far worse than pain. Him standing in my apartment, injured and bleeding, yet somehow still in control.
I knew he was dangerous.
I just didn’t know how deep the darkness ran.
A broken sound tears from my throat as tears spill freely, blurring everything. I should have known. I should have felt it, the warning hum beneath his touch, the violence coiled so neatly beneath his restraint. But I was blinded by him. By his gravity. By the way he made me feel chosen.
Stupid.
Na?ve.
My chest tightens painfully as the truth settles in, this isn’t just danger. This is annihilation wrapped in devotion.
I need to leave.
Now.
Panic jolts me into motion. I scramble to my feet, knees shaking violently, tears streaking down my face and soaking into the black T-shirt I’m wearing, his T-shirt. The irony almost makes me laugh hysterically.
I force myself to move quietly as I slip back into his bedroom.
Khai is still asleep.
Relief floods me, sharp and breathless. I don’t look at him for too long, I can’t. One glance might undo me. I grab my phone from the bedside table and retreat into the bathroom, hands clumsy as I snatch my scrubs from where I’d discarded them the night before.
Then I’m moving again, back into the living space, dragging the clothes on with shaking fingers. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure it must carry down the hall.
As I pull the last piece into place, I dial Tate’s number.
The phone rings.
Once.
Twice.
“Em.”
Tate’s voice is thick with sleep, rough around the edges. “It’s seven-thirty in the morning. Please tell me the world is ending, because that’s the only acceptable reason you’re calling me right now.”
“T-T-Tate,” I choke out, the sound barely holding together as it slips past my lips.
The shift on the other end of the line is immediate. No teasing now. No humour. “Emmy,” she says, fully awake, worry threading through every syllable. “What’s wrong?”
“I, I need you to come get me,” I sob quietly, pressing the phone closer to my ear. “Now. P-please.”
“Okay.” I hear movement, sheets rustling, footsteps. “Okay, breathe. You need to tell me what’s happening. Where are you?”
I force myself to inhale, then exhale, though my breaths shake like they might splinter apart. “I’m at K-Khai’s,” I whisper. “I n-need to leave. Now.”
There’s a pause. Too long.
“Did he hurt you?” Her voice hardens, sharp and protective, like a blade being drawn.
“No,” I murmur quickly, lowering my voice even further, fear prickling along my spine. “No. But I can’t talk right now.”
Tate takes a slow, audible breath, the kind she only uses when she’s forcing herself to stay calm. “Okay,” she says, decisive. Grounded. “Drop me your pin. Get outside. Stay out of sight. I’m on my way.”
“O-okay,” I whisper, already moving, fingers trembling as I open our message thread and send my location.
“Got it,” she says. “Fifteen minutes.”
The call ends before I can respond, the line going dead in my ear.
My phone trembles in my unsteady grip as I force myself to move. I scan the apartment like it might turn on me at any second, spotting my shoes near the door, my bag slung over a chair. I move quickly, silently, gathering what little I can, every sound feeling far too loud in the oppressive quiet.
Before I can talk myself out of it, before fear can override instinct, my gaze flicks back to the kitchen island.
The paper.
My pulse spikes. I grab the kill order and shove it into my bag, my hands moving on pure reflex now. Proof. Leverage. Or maybe just a lifeline I don’t yet understand. Either way, I can’t leave it behind.
I make for the doors to the private lift, my footsteps light, careful. My finger presses the call button, and I hold my breath, silently begging it not to betray me with delay.
Seconds stretch.
Then, a soft ding.
The doors slide open with an almost mocking gentleness. I glance over my shoulder, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat, half-expecting to see Khai standing there, awake, watching, already knowing.
But the hallway is empty.
Relief hits hard and dizzying as I step inside the lift and press the button for the ground level.
The doors remain open for a fraction too long, framing his penthouse like a threat.
I stare into the space, paralysed, convinced that any second now he’ll emerge from the bedroom, eyes sharp, voice calm, asking me where I think I’m going.
I don’t breathe.
I grip the handrail, bracing myself for the moment everything goes wrong.
Then the doors glide shut.
The lift begins its descent.
My lungs finally draw in air, a shaky breath breaking free as my shoulders sag just slightly. For the first time since I saw the truth laid bare on that island, I allow myself a sliver of safety.
Just a moment.
The lift doors slide open a few minutes later, releasing me into a space that looks more like the lobby of a luxury hotel than the ground floor of a residential building. Polished marble. Soft lighting. The illusion of calm.
A security desk sits near the entrance.
Behind it, a guard scrolls lazily through his phone.
Fuck.
There’s no way around him.
I lower my head and move fast, my hair falling forward like a curtain as I pass. I give a quick, careless wave just as he glances up, my heart hammering so violently I’m certain he can hear it.
“Have a good day, miss,” he says, distracted and dismissive.
I don’t stop walking.
The moment I step outside, the chill hits me hard.
The morning sun no longer feels warm or forgiving, it’s sharp, exposing, nothing like the golden safety it was in his bedroom.
I put distance between myself and the entrance, slipping behind a parked delivery truck and pressing myself into its shadow.
Hidden.
I call Tate back. She answers on the first ring.
“Emmy, I’m five minutes away.”
“Okay,” I whisper, scanning the street. “I’m behind the delivery truck near the front entrance.”
“Stay there,” she says gently, then pauses. “Stay on the phone with me while you wait.”
I nod even though she can’t see me, gripping the phone as I lean against the truck, my breaths shallow and uneven. I focus on not breaking apart, not yet. I can’t afford to fall apart yet.
Minutes drag by like hours.
Tate pulls up, and I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I know I’ll freeze. I round the car and climb in quickly, slamming the door shut like it might seal the past behind me.
Tate turns towards me immediately; worry etched deep into her face. “Where can I take you?”
The question cracks something open inside me. Tears blur my vision as I inhale shakily. “I can’t go home,” I whisper. “Can you… can you take me to yours?”
She nods without hesitation and pulls away from the curb.
As the building disappears behind us, I finally allow myself one glance back.
Something inside my chest splinters.
It aches. Deep and sharp and unbearable.
Because even now, terrified, shaken, running, I feel it.
I already miss him.
And that thought is more dangerous than anything I left behind.
So, I bury it. I push it down as far as it will go, wrapping myself in denial like armour, knowing with sick certainty that no matter how far I run…
Khai’s shadow will find me again.