18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Emily
I stared at my phone, my finger hovering over Dion's name in my contacts. It had been three days since the warehouse, three days since I'd watched him disappear into that ambulance, and no one would tell me where he was, and he never answered his phone no matter what number I dialed from.
"He's recovering," was all Gideon would say when I cornered him at Salvation. "He needs time."
Time for what? To decide I wasn't worth the trouble? To realize that I'd nearly gotten us both killed because I couldn't trust him enough to stay put?
Because I was a pathetic, whiny bitch that had nearly gotten him killed? No wonder he doesn't want to see you.
The apartment I'd been staying in—one of Salvation's safehouses—felt like a prison. Outside, the world was moving on. The news had broken about the trafficking ring. Arrests were being made. Susan Blackwell was in federal custody. Richard Kline had been arrested and was blaming everyone.
And my father was under investigation for financial connections to Oak Developments. Melanie had tried calling me incessantly, but I wasn't interested. Apparently, all Dad's clients had fled, and she was trying to pick up the pieces.
My mom hadn't tried to call me even once.
I should have been sad about that, but I couldn't summon anything except relief to be done with the lot of them.
My phone rang, interrupting my spiral. Unknown number.
"Emily Carter," I answered automatically, my heart leaping.
"Ms. Carter, this is Agent Martinez with the FBI. We need to schedule a follow-up interview regarding your mother's involvement in the Oak Developments case."
I closed my eyes, disappointment and exhaustion washing over me. "I've already told you everything I know. My mother called me, said she was in trouble, asked me to meet her. I went because I thought she was in danger."
"Yes, but we've discovered some additional information that suggests—"
"That suggests what?" I snapped. "That she's been working with them all along? That she used me as bait to lure Dion into a trap? Because if that's what you're going to tell me, Agent Martinez, save your breath. I already figured that out."
There was a pause. "Ms. Carter, I understand this is difficult—"
"Do you? Do you understand what it's like to realize your own mother was willing to sacrifice you to protect herself?"
"Your mother claims she was coerced. That they threatened to kill her husband if she didn't cooperate."
I laughed bitterly. "Right. So, she made her choice and now I'm making mine." I didn’t care. I’d lost the one good thing in my life and I’d only myself to blame.
I took a shaky breath. "Schedule your interview. I'll be there. But don't expect me to defend her actions."
After I hung up, I sat in the silence of the empty apartment, staring at the evidence boxes I'd been reviewing.
Zoe Morris had been recovered safely, along with three other children, and, thank God, Marisol .
She was safe . Even if Marisol and the others been sent to a different part of the US, and I wouldn't see her.
She was safe. They had even found documented evidence to find other kids, blackmail material apparently.
The Bennetts, the Wilsons, and six other families had been arrested. It should have felt like victory.
Instead, it felt hollow.
Because Dion was gone, and I knew it was my fault.
I'd pushed him away, questioned his motives, accused him of treating me like a child.
And maybe he had been overprotective, but he'd also been right.
I'd walked straight into danger because I was too stubborn to trust his judgment, because my mother's voice in my head telling me to grow up had been louder than the one I loved.
I knew I'd fallen for him when I'd met him at Furbabies, but as usual I'd been too stubborn to admit it.
Now children were safe because of his team's work, not because of the evidence I'd gathered, but because of the man who'd made it all possible—who'd taken two bullets to save my life—and he wouldn't even speak to me.
My phone buzzed with a text from my sister: You need to speak to the authorities about Dad. This is ridiculous. – Melanie.
I deleted it without responding and then added that number to my ever-increasing list of blocked ones. It was only the slim hope Dion would get in touch that stopped me from changing it altogether.
Three more days passed in a haze of FBI interviews, paperwork, and sleepless nights, and I moved back into my apartment.
I'd been cleared to return to work—with a new supervisor and a commendation for my role in exposing the trafficking ring—but the thought of going back to the department felt surreal.
How could I sit in meetings and review cases when the man I loved was somewhere out there, refusing to see me?
Finally, desperation drove me to make a decision I probably should have made days ago.
Walker lived in one of the four houses in the same small complex as Dion, and when I pulled into his driveway at seven in the morning, I could see him waiting at the door after his security obviously notified him I was at the gate.
"Emily." He didn't seem surprised to see me. "Come in."
His kitchen was neat and masculine, all clean lines and functional furniture. Plain. It looked like a rental not a home. He poured me a cup of coffee without asking, then leaned against the counter, waiting.
"Where is he?" I asked without preamble.
"Recovering," Walker replied, the same non-answer I'd gotten from everyone else.
"That's not good enough anymore." I set down the coffee cup harder than necessary. "It's been six days. He won't answer his phone, wouldn't see me at the hospital before they discharged him. I need to know if he's okay."
Walker studied me for a long moment. "Physically, he's fine. The bullets went clean through, no major damage. He'll have full use of his arm."
"And emotionally?"
"That's more complicated."
I felt tears prick at my eyes. "Is it because of what I said? Because I accused him of treating me like a child? Because I can apologize, I can—"
"Emily." Walker's voice was gentle but firm. "Sit down."
I perched on the edge of one of his kitchen chairs, my hands twisted in my lap.
Walker's gaze was steady, penetrating. "He believes he failed you by not being what you need."
"What I need ?" I repeated, baffled. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," Walker said carefully, "that Dion thinks he pushed you too far into a dynamic you weren't comfortable with. That his need to protect and care for you drove you away, right into Rice’s trap."
"That's ridiculous!" I stood up, unable to contain my frustration.
"And yet you walked straight into a trap that nearly got you both killed."
The blunt assessment stung, but I couldn't deny its truth. "I made a mistake."
"We all do," Walker agreed, his tone softening slightly. "But Dion takes his responsibilities seriously. When someone he cares about is hurt on his watch, he doesn't forgive himself easily."
"But it wasn't his fault," I insisted. "It was mine. I'm the one who left without telling him."
Walker sighed, running a hand through his short hair. "Emily, do you understand what being with Dion really means? Not just the parts you like—the caretaking, the protection—but all of it?"
I hesitated, caught off guard by the question. "I... I think so."
"No, you don't," he said firmly. "Because if you did, you wouldn't have run from it the moment it became inconvenient."
"That's not fair," I protested, though the words lacked conviction.
"Isn't it?" Walker challenged. "Dion is a Daddy Dom. It's not a role he plays; it's who he is. He needs to protect, to nurture, to guide. And sometimes, yes, to set boundaries."
I sank back into the chair, Walker's words hitting with uncomfortable precision. "I know that."
"Do you? Because when he tried to give you a safe space after a traumatic experience, you accused him of treating you like a child. When he expressed concern for your safety, you called it controlling."
"I was upset," I whispered. "I didn't mean—"
"That's the thing about words, Emily. Once they're out, you can't take them back." Walker's expression was sympathetic but unyielding. "Dion believes you need someone different. Someone who can give you more freedom, more autonomy."
"I don't want someone different!" The words burst from me with surprising force. "I want him. Just as he is."
Walker studied me, his gaze assessing. "Even the parts that make you uncomfortable? The parts that challenge your need for control?"
I swallowed hard, forced to confront truths I'd been avoiding. "Yes," I said finally. "Even those parts. Especially those parts."
"Why?"
"Because..." I struggled to articulate feelings I'd barely acknowledged to myself.
"Because he makes me feel safe in a way no one ever has.
Because he sees me—all of me, even the parts I try to hide.
And because when I'm with him, I don't have to be strong all the time. Because I love him," I whispered.
Walker nodded slowly. "And what about when he tells you to do something you don't want to do? When he makes a decision you disagree with?"
"I..." I paused, remembering our argument. "I need to trust him more. To understand that sometimes he sees dangers I don't."
"And sometimes," Walker added gently, "you need to accept that his need to protect you isn't about control—it's about love."
The word hung in the air between us. Love. I knew what that felt like now. This ache in my chest, this desperate need to see him, to make things right.
"I do trust him," I said finally. "More than I've ever trusted anyone. I just... I got scared."
"Of what?"
"Of needing him too much," I admitted, the truth finally breaking free. "Of what happens if I let myself depend on someone and then they change their mind. I'm never good enough. I wasn't for my family, no matter how much I tried to twist myself into what they wanted."