Chapter 16 Emma
EMMA
Ican't sleep.
I've been lying in my snug childhood bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. The same creaks and groans I've heard my entire life. The same wind rattling the windows. The same Montana darkness pressing against the glass.
But nothing feels the same.
My heart won't stop racing. My skin feels too tight. Every nerve ending is alive and screaming, and my body won’t settle down.
Because Jake Callahan killed a man for me tonight.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to process it. Trying to make sense of the fact that Eli Turner is dead—actually dead—and I feel nothing but relief. No horror. No guilt. No moral crisis.
Just... relief.
And gratitude.
And something darker that I'm not ready to name.
A normal person would be horrified, right? I should call the sheriff. I should be doing something other than lying here in bed, replaying the moment Jake stepped out of the shadows with blood on his hands.
But all I can think about is the way he looked at me when I asked him why.
Because no one touches you.
Four words. Simple. Absolute. Devastating.
Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like there was never any other choice. Like killing for me was as natural as breathing.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps. My body hums with an energy I can't contain.
I keep seeing Jake in the parking lot. The controlled violence. The lethal precision. The way he moved like death itself—silent, efficient, unstoppable.
He didn't fight Turner. He eliminated him.
And God help me, I think that’s wonderful. Hot, even.
Turning onto my back again, I stare at the remnants of the glowing stars I’d pasted to the ceiling sometime in my freshman year.
Something is wrong with me. There has to be.
Normal women don't get turned on when a man commits murder.
Normal women don't feel their pulse quicken at the memory of blood and darkness and cold calculation.
Except I'm not thinking about what's normal—I'm thinking about Jake's hands. The way they moved with such confidence. The way they touched me afterward—possessive and claiming and absolutely sure.
I'm thinking about the way he looked at me and said this place is a fucking liability like he was already planning how to fix it, how to protect me. How to make sure nothing ever touches me again.
I should be offended. I don’t like to be told what to do. I’m a grown-ass woman, successful and independent. I’ve supported myself since I was eighteen, first waiting tables and then with my photography. I should be angry that he walked into my home and started giving orders.
But I'm not.
I'm wet.