Chapter Thirty Emmy
Chapter Thirty
Emmy
Tate’s front door closes behind me with a soft click, a sound far too loud in the stillness that follows.
For the first time since I ran, I stop.
My back presses against the door as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My chest tightens, breath stuttering as the adrenaline that carried me this far finally drains away. What’s left behind is a tremor that seeps deep into my bones, slow and relentless.
Safe, I tell myself.
The word feels thin. Fragile. Temporary, like glass held together by hope alone.
Tate stands a few steps away, her eyes sharp with worry, watching me like she’s afraid I might shatter if she looks too hard. “Emmy,” she says softly. “Talk to me. What happened?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes.
Because how do I explain a man who felt like sanctuary and destruction all at once? How do I tell her that the danger isn’t something I ran from, it’s something that wrapped itself around my heart and hasn’t let go?
The truth presses against my ribs, desperate to escape.
But I swallow it down.
I can’t tell her what I found. I can’t let her carry it with me. If I speak it aloud, if I give it a name, it won’t just be mine anymore, and I won’t paint a target on her back.
“I just… needed to get out,” I say at last, the words thin but steady. “Something didn’t feel right.”
It isn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.
Tate studies my face, searching for the fractures I’m trying so hard to hide. She knows I’m holding something back, she always does, but she doesn’t push. Tate has a way of recognising when the truth would only draw blood if forced into the open.
“You can stay here as long as you want,” she says instead, softer now. “I’ve got an early shift, but make yourself at home, okay?”
I nod, relief tangling painfully with guilt in my chest.
If she knew what I know, it would put her in danger.
And I won’t do that to her.
As she turns to get ready, instinct overrides restraint. I reach out and catch her arm. She pauses, looking back just in time for me to collapse into her, my composure shattering. Tears come fast and hot, soaking into her shoulder as I cling to her like she’s the only solid thing left in the world.
“Thank you, Tate,” I choke, the words breaking apart as she wraps her arms around me without hesitation.
“Em,” she murmurs, holding me close. “I can call in sick. We can spend the day on the couch, watch stupid movies, order too much food.”
I pull back just enough to look at her, wiping my tears away with my sleeve. “No,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I just… needed a moment. To feel. To fall apart.”
Her expression softens, but her voice is unwavering. “I’m always here for you,” she says. “No matter what. Call me if you need anything.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
Because loving Tate like this, letting her hold me, only makes the silence heavier.
And the truth I’m hiding feels sharper than ever, pressing against my ribs, waiting for the moment it finally cuts its way out.
The moment the door closes behind her, the apartment exhales, and the silence rushes in.
It presses against my ears, thick and suffocating, too loud in all the ways that matter. I move straight for the bathroom, shutting the door and twisting the lock as if it might hold my thoughts at bay. As if I can keep him out.
Steam blooms as the shower heats, swallowing the room, fogging the mirror until my reflection dissolves into something unrecognisable.
Good.
I don’t want to see myself right now.
Under the spray, my mind turns brutal. Images collide without mercy, scattered papers, stark white pages, the word target burned into my memory.
Khai’s voice follows, low and intimate, murmuring against my skin like a secret meant only for me.
His arms. Strong. Certain. The safest place I’ve ever known.
And the most dangerous.
I scrub at my skin until it stings, until heat blooms beneath my fingertips, as if I can scour him away. As if water and friction might erase knowledge. Might undo the truth of what he does.
Of what he is.
But I can’t.
He’s already under my skin, woven into me in a way I don’t know how to remove.
When I finally step out, wrapped in a towel, my hands tremble as I reach for my phone. My pulse skids, anticipation sharp and unwelcome.
I expect something.
A message. A missed call. A warning. A promise.
Anything.
There’s nothing.
The silence lands heavier than words ever could, sinking deep into my chest, not relief, not safety, but something colder.
Something that feels dangerously close to rejection.
I dress in borrowed clothes from Tate’s wardrobe, soft leggings, an oversized jumper that hangs off me just right, carrying the faint, comforting scent of her detergent. It feels wrong wearing something so gentle when everything inside me is frayed.
I retreat to the living room and make myself hot chocolate, my movements automatic, distant. I curl up on the couch, knees drawn in, the television filling the space with meaningless noise I don’t actually hear. It’s just there to remind me I’m not alone.
It doesn’t work.
The emotions hit without warning, sudden and crushing, like a collapse from the inside out.
My chest tightens painfully, breath stuttering as everything I’ve been holding back crashes down at once.
Fear. Loss. Longing. I clutch at the fabric over my heart as if that might stop it from breaking open.
My hand finds my phone.
I open my messages, scrolling until his name fills the screen. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling. I almost text him. Almost give in to the pull that feels as natural as breathing.
Then I stop.
I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the table like it’s burned me, curling tighter into myself as the tears finally come. They fall freely now, hot, relentless, soaking into the borrowed fabric as I let myself unravel in the quiet.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
Only that exhaustion eventually drags me under, heavy and merciless, pulling me into darkness before I can stop it, leaving the ache, and the silence, waiting for me when I wake.
The shrill ring of my phone tears me from sleep, dragging me violently back to the surface. My heart slams against my ribs, disoriented panic flooding my veins as I fumble for the screen.
“Tate?” My voice comes out rough, barely more than a croak.
“Emmy.” Her tone is clipped now, professional, urgent, stripped of softness. “I’m at the hospital. Mr Blackwood, bed nine, his condition has deteriorated rapidly. The doctors don’t think he has more than a couple of hours left.”
The words hit like ice water.
“I know you’ve formed… a bond with him,” she adds more gently. “I thought you might want the chance to say goodbye.”
Cold spreads through me, sharp and paralysing.
“No,” I whisper. “No, I, I’ll come in.”
I don’t allow myself to think. Thinking would slow me down. Fear propels me instead.
I’m on my feet in seconds, dragging on the first jacket I find in Tate’s wardrobe, my hands clumsy and unsteady. I shove my feet into shoes, call a taxi without looking at the screen, my mind already racing ahead of me.
Mr Blackwood’s quiet presence. The way I talk to him when no one else does. The strange comfort I found in that room.
I can’t not be there.
But confusion coils tight beneath the panic, dark and insistent.
He was stable. Improving. Every day a little better.
So what changed?
The hospital lights are too bright, too unforgiving, buzzing overhead as I hurry down corridors I know by heart. The familiar becomes distorted by urgency, by the sharp edge of unease scraping at my spine. I scan my badge without thinking. Muscle memory takes over.
ICU. Bed nine.
The door is ajar.
I step inside, and stop.
The room is wrong.
Too still. Too clean. The air feels undisturbed, like it’s been waiting.
Mr Blackwood lies in the bed, but he looks… fine. Colour warms his cheeks. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. No alarms scream. No frantic voices crowd the space. No signs of imminent death.
Confusion prickles sharply along my nerves.
Then the door closes behind me.
Soft. Deliberate. Final.
Cold metal kisses my temple.
Not a press, a promise.
Every muscle in my body locks as the weight of the gun settles there, firm and unyielding, angled just enough to make its intent unmistakable. A single movement would be enough. A breath taken wrong.
I freeze.
A presence looms close, invading my space, my air, and a breath that is not Khai’s brushes my ear, slow and amused.
“Well,” a voice murmurs, low and cultured, threaded with something sharp and cruel. “Nice to finally meet you, pretty little thing.”
The barrel shifts slightly, tracing my skin, a calculated reminder of how easily I could be erased.
“I see why my son was so eager to keep you hidden,” he continues softly, almost fond. “You’re much more delicate than I expected.”
My heart hammers violently, terror flooding my veins as understanding crashes down around me.
This isn’t a coincidence. This isn’t a mistake.
And in that moment, with steel at my head and death breathing down my neck, the truth settles in with terrifying clarity:
Running didn’t save me.
It only delivered me exactly where he wanted me.