Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Emily
The fireplace casts amber light across the living room while the television flickers through the final act of some action movie Grady insisted we watch.
I sit tucked between him and Jared on the couch, with Jared’s arm draped heavily across my shoulders and Grady’s injured leg stretched over my lap while I work slow circles into the scarred muscle around his knee.
He groans under his breath, not in pain but in appreciation, and Jared’s thumb traces idle patterns along my collarbone.
For the first time all week, the ache beneath my sternum has quieted.
Not gone, but manageable, so when the tentative knock sounds at the door, my muscles tense before my brain catches up. Jared and Grady freeze on either side of me before Jared raises the remote to pause the movie.
“Expecting anyone?” Grady asks, his hand halfway to the popcorn bowl resting on his stomach.
I shake my head, untangling myself from them. “No one who’d show up without texting first.”
The knocks come again, louder this time. Mixie grumbles as she jumps off Jared’s lap, vanishing down the hallway.
“Want me to answer?” Jared shifts, ready to stand, but I wave him back.
“I’ve got it.” The hardwood floor chills my bare feet as I pad to the entryway, flicking on the porch light.
Through the small window, I catch a glimpse of a tall figure, shoulders hunched against the December showers that had come to melt away the snow from earlier in the week, and my heart gives a single, painful thud.
I pull the door open, words of greeting dying on my lips.
Leif stands on my porch, rain cascading from his hair down his jaw, mingling with what can only be blood from his split lip. His left cheek swells purple beneath his eye, already darkening to the color of a storm cloud. His navy coat hangs askew, buttoned out of alignment.
“Em.” My name from his mouth comes out wet and thick, his lip reopening with the effort of speaking.
“Inside.” I grab his elbow, guiding him across the threshold, and the porch light illuminates him as he passes beneath it, revealing pale skin gone waxy with shock and a tremor in his hands that he can’t quite control.
I peer past him into the rain to find his car parked at the curb. “Did you drive here in this condition?”
“Didn’t know where else to go,” he slurs as he stumbles into the cottage, rain puddling beneath his shoes on my hardwood floor.
At the sound of Leif’s voice, Jared peers toward the door, then bolts off the couch when he catches sight of the Omega. “What the hell happened?”
Behind him, Grady sets the popcorn bowl aside, his shoulders going rigid with concern.
“Chair,” I direct Leif, steering him toward the dining room without letting go of his arm. “Head between your knees if you need it.”
His legs fold beneath him as he reaches the nearest chair, his body crumpling into the seat.
Up close, the damage is worse. The split in his lip is deep enough that I can see the raw flesh beneath, and the bruise on his cheek is spreading toward his eye, which will swell shut by morning if not iced.
“First aid kit,” I tell Jared without turning away from Leif. “And towels.”
Grady appears at my side with a glass of water, which he sets on the table as he takes in the damage done to Leif’s face. “Ice?”
“Yes. And the whiskey.”
While they move around me, I drop to one knee before Leif, lifting his chin with gentle fingers. His focus settles on me, pupils huge with shock, or pain. Probably both. I catalog each injury, compartmentalizing the fury building behind a wall of necessary tasks.
Split lip, clean break, but deep. Bruised cheekbone, no obvious fracture. Scraped knuckles that appear to be rug burns rather than defensive wounds.
“Can you track my finger?” I hold up my index finger, moving it from side to side.
His eyes follow without trouble.
No obvious concussion, thank goodness.
Jared returns with the first-aid kit and a stack of clean towels. I wet one under the faucet and hold it to Leif’s lip with care, the white cotton coming away red.
He hisses but doesn’t pull back.
“What hurts worst?” I ask, holding on to calm despite the rage churning beneath my sternum.
“Pride,” he manages, wincing as fresh blood leaks from his lip.
“That wasn’t the question.” I accept the ice pack Grady wraps in a dish towel, pressing it to Leif’s cheek. “Hold this here.”
His fingers brush mine as he takes over, holding the ice pack, cold from the outdoors still clinging to his skin. For three heartbeats, I allow myself the relief of his presence, alive and whole enough to sit in my home. Then I lock that emotion away to deal with later.
I clean each wound with gentle care, helping him out of his damp jacket to check for further injuries. The blood on his shirt feeds my rage, but the split lip seems to be the source.
The familiar motions of first aid anchor me to the present, keeping the storm inside me contained while I work.
Hydrogen peroxide bubbles white on his injuries before I pat them dry.
Butterfly bandages close the worst part of his lip.
Antibiotic ointment gleams on his knuckles before I wrap them in clean gauze.
Grady pours three fingers of whiskey into a tumbler and sets it by Leif’s hand without a word. Jared leans on the counter, arms crossed, every line of him locked tight, but his scent gives away his anger as salt air turns to ocean storm.
When every injury has been addressed, I pull out the chair across from Leif and sit, my back straight, hands flat on the table between us. The question burns in my throat, acidic and inevitable.
“Who hurt you?”
His eyes drop to the table, to his bandaged knuckles, to the whiskey he hasn’t touched.
The silence stretches tight as piano wire before he sighs, the sound wet with blood and defeat. “Carson. He ambushed me at my motel.”
A cold resolve floods my veins, drowning out every other emotion. My anger burns hotter now than it ever did when Auren brought his lovers into the home we shared.
I stand, chair legs scraping across the hardwood. Long strides carry me to the spot near the front door where my toolbox lives when I’m not on a job site. The crowbar settles into my hand, the solid metal having the perfect heft for swinging at studs or skulls.
“Emily.” Leif’s voice breaks on my name, but I don’t turn back.
I grab my truck keys from the hook by the door, slipping my feet into work boots without bothering to tie the laces. The crowbar hangs at my side, its weight familiar and right. It won’t be hard to get Carson’s home address. A man with his confidence would register it for public record.
“Where are you going?” Leif asks, his fear unable to penetrate the calm that’s settled over me.
“To have a conversation.” I grip the crowbar tighter, the metal cool in my palm. “About consequences.”
My hand closes around the doorknob, purpose pulling me forward like gravity. Whatever has happened between Leif and me these past months doesn’t matter now. This isn’t about forgiveness or reconciliation. This is about the man who raised his fist to my Omega.
Jared’s hand lands on my shoulder, not restraining but giving me pause. Behind me comes the uneven tap of Grady’s cane across the floor. Neither speaks as they position themselves, Jared at my back, Grady moving to block the path to the door.
Their bodies form a living barrier.
“Move.” The word comes out as a growl.
“Not happening, Em.” Grady plants his feet as he tracks the crowbar in my hand, calculating its arc, the damage it could inflict.
He doesn’t reach for it, though. Doesn’t try to take it from me. The choice remains mine, and we all know it.
My fingers tighten around the worn grip, the metal cold in my palm.
“What’s your plan?” Jared asks, his breath warm on the back of my neck. “You show up at Carson’s door with a crowbar, and you’ll end up in jail.”
I turn to him. “He put his hands on Leif.”
“And going to prison for assault won’t help anyone.” Jared doesn’t back away from my anger, his sea-glass eyes steady on mine. His hand remains on my shoulder, thumb tracing small circles on the fabric of my shirt. “Carson has connections. Money. A spotless public reputation.”
“He split Leif’s lip and bruised his face.” My volume climbs despite my effort to keep it level. “He broke into his hotel room.”
“I know.” Jared’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. “And we will deal with him. But not like this.”
Grady steps forward, bringing with him faint traces of buttery popcorn. “You go over there now, with a weapon, and he wins. That’s the headline tomorrow: ‘School Administrator Attacked by Construction Worker.’ It won’t matter what he did first.”
The logic penetrates the fog of fury surrounding my thoughts. Carson is calculated. Prepared. A direct confrontation will play right into his hands.
“He’s counting on this,” Grady continues. “If you react with force, it removes you from Leif’s side, with the added bonus of painting Leif as the Omega who hangs around with violent Alphas.”
My jaw clenches tight enough that my teeth ache. “So we do nothing?”
“No.” Jared moves to stand beside Grady, both of them facing me now. “We do this smart. A hospitalized administrator becomes a victim, not an abuser.”
Rain patters outside, punctuating his words. Behind them, Leif hunches at the dining table, the ice pack pressed to the side of his face and the evidence of Carson’s violence written on his body.
“He thinks he’s untouchable,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “That the system will protect him again.”
“So we work outside the system,” Grady offers, a strategist’s fire burning through his composure. “Or we change it. But showing up at his door with a crowbar is not the answer.”
The metal in my hand grows heavier with each passing second.
“Em.” Jared touches the back of my hand over the handle. “You know we’re right.”
My fingers flex, then I lower the crowbar to my side. “What he did cannot stand.”
“It won’t.” Grady’s hand extends toward me, palm up. “But we need to be smarter than he expects.”
The cottage falls silent except for the persistent tap of rain on the windows and the soft crackle of the fireplace. The movie remains paused on the television screen, actors frozen mid-scene, their fictional drama rendered meaningless by the real crisis unfolding in my cottage.
With careful motions, I place the crowbar on the small table by the door. The metal connects with wood, a solid thunk that echoes in the quiet room.
Slowly, we return to where Leif sits, and I stop next to him.
My instincts demand that I mark, guard, and eliminate the threat.
“I won’t claim you to make you safe,” I tell him, steady despite the emotions churning beneath the surface. “If that’s what you came here for, you should know that’s not what I’m offering.”
Leif’s bandaged fingers tighten around the whiskey glass he still hasn’t touched. “I didn’t come for that.”
I pull out the chair across from him once more. “What did you come here for?”
Jared and Grady settle around us, present but allowing this conversation to unfold between Leif and me.
“I realized isolating myself is what he wanted,” he admits, setting down the ice pack to reveal the full extent of the damage. “I didn’t want to be alone anymore, but I don’t expect you to fix it for me.”
“I can’t fix it.” The honesty costs me everything. “No one can erase what he did. But we can ensure he never does it again, to you or anyone else.”
“How?” Leif asks, appearing lost.
“By bringing everything into the open.” My hands spread on the table, palms up. “This isn’t about rescue, Leif. It’s about witnesses. People who stand beside you while you tell your truth, who corroborate what can be corroborated, and who refuse to let your story be buried or twisted.”
His throat works as he swallows, wincing in pain. “You want me to report him.”
“I want you to decide if reporting is the right path,” I say, matter-of-factly. “But if you choose that path, I want you to have an army at your back.”
From the counter, Grady clears his throat. “Carson’s survived institutional reporting before. We need to understand why before we walk that road again.”
“And we need to document everything,” Jared adds, tight with controlled anger. “Starting with photographs of your injuries tonight, before they begin to heal.”
Leif’s eyes close, a tremor running through him, and when they open again, quiet shame and resignation fill them. “Where should I start?”
“At the beginning.” I rest my arms on the table. “Tell us everything.”