Chapter 12 Emma
Chapter twelve
Emma
One week at Falkirk.
Five workdays of Nathan's smirk around every corner, of pretending I belonged in a building that still smelled like enemy territory.
And nine days since Damien's world had collapsed beneath his feet.
Nine days since his phone had shattered the quiet of our night—Rosie's voice on the other end, those words that sent him running. I could still see his face in the doorway, the way his whole body had gone rigid before he'd even said a word.
And after all of that—here I was.
Standing in my own kitchen, waiting for Damien to arrive for dinner like we were a normal couple. Like we hadn't spent the past week watching his brother fight for his life.
I'd left Candace covering the daytime shifts in the ICU for the next week while Rosie recovered and while we worked. A nasty cold, but nothing serious. Thank god. I wasn't sure Damien could take another hit.
Garlic bloomed in the pan at the stove, Susan sautéing the beginnings of dinner.
"How are you holding up?" she asked.
I let my head fall into my hands, elbows on the counter. "I'm exhausted."
"I can imagine," she murmured, not looking up from the pan. "The two of you have been running on fumes for days."
She added something—white wine, maybe—and the sizzle filled the kitchen.
"I'm surprised you two are staying here tonight," she added. "I was starting to think I was out of a job."
It had been a while since I'd been home. A week, maybe two. And walking in tonight, I'd noticed something I shouldn't have.
The smell.
Not bad—just… there.
The lemon cleaner soaked into the hardwood. The faint trace of mildew in the bathroom. The honest scent of a lived-in space—things your senses go blind to over time.
I noticed them all now.
"I guess it has been a while," I said quietly.
My phone vibrated on the counter, skittering across the surface. I snatched it up on the first ring.
"Hey."
Damien's tired voice came through the speaker. "I'm on my way home."
He'd spent half the day pacing his living room like a caged cat, unable to sit still—and the other half sitting beside Candace, willing Sebastian to open his eyes, stepping away only when he had to.
It was a miracle he'd even mentioned a date night.
Celebration, he'd called it. For my first week. For surviving Falkirk's board.
But we both knew tonight wouldn't feel like a celebration.
Not after the week we'd had.
Not for a while.
"Good. Drive safe."
"I will."
I didn't ask for an update. There wouldn't be one.
The line went dead, and I let my focus blur—mind numbing into blessed nothing for one quiet moment.
Eventually, Susan's tentative voice drew me back. "How is he?"
I refocused on the movement of her arm stirring a sauce in the pan.
"Don't tell him I said this, but he's a mess. Exhausted, stressed, barely eating." I let out a humorless laugh. "I basically shoved an egg sandwich down his throat this morning."
Her face softened. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
A tiny flicker of warmth stirred in me. "No, but I appreciate the offer."
She slid a pan of Brussels sprouts into the oven, then leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Can I offer some advice?"
I tilted my head. "Of course."
"Tonight? Try not to talk about it."
"I don't know what else we'd talk about. It's all I can think about, let alone—"
"Talk about anything else," she cut in gently. "Movies. Books. Let him celebrate you and your first week at Falkirk." A small smile tugged at her lips. "Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone who's drowning is give them an hour where they don't have to swim."
I'd been so focused on supporting him that I hadn't considered how desperately he might want to forget for a little while. To breathe. Even for one night.
"Thanks, Susan. I hadn't thought of it that way."
Footsteps sounded down the hall—leather soles, unhurried but heavy.
Damien rounded the corner a moment later, his face brightening when our gazes met. He crossed to me, pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Hey, love."
"How is he?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
So much for Susan's advice.
"The same." His lips twitched as he pulled me close. "But Candace—"
I jerked my head up.
"Not anything to worry about," he added quickly, a laugh breaking through. "She's just nervous about being in the ICU. Said it was overwhelming."
I winced. "I shouldn't have asked her to—"
"She settled in," he went on, not hearing me. "She's reading him Twilight."
A real laugh this time, jostling me in his arms. "Can you believe that? The guy's going to wake up from one trauma only to be traumatized in a completely different way."
I swatted his back. "I'm not having this fight with you again."
"It isn't a fight." He leaned close, forehead brushing mine. "It's simply someone who's right talking to someone who's wrong."
I rose onto my toes, our lips a breath apart. "And who's right?"
"You, obviously."
Then he kissed me—sweet and careful.
Behind us, Susan made an unnecessarily loud clatter—metal spatula against the Brussels sprout pan, steam puffing up in small bursts.
I startled in his arms, pulling back.
"Smells great in here, Susan," Damien said by way of greeting.
"Yeah, yeah." She tsked, but I caught the edge of a smile.
He turned back to me. "Now—enough about Candace. Tonight is about you."
My first instinct was to argue. To tell him I was fine, that I'd be here for him, for all of them.
But Susan's words drifted back:
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone who's drowning is give them an hour where they don't have to swim.
And I knew Damien's version of that kindness would be this—caring for me instead.
I looked at him, let a smile bloom, and lied through my teeth. "That sounds amazing."
Susan finished dinner in record time—roasted Brussels sprouts pasta. An interesting and surprisingly delicious combo.
We loaded up plates and carried them to the living room, settling into the couch like we used to before everything went sideways. Feet tucked beneath me, his thigh warm against mine, the TV glowing soft in front of us. Almost normal. Almost easy.
"Do you want to watch a show or talk?" I asked.
"Whatever you want to do." He smiled, licking sauce from his fork.
I tried to hide my grimace, the uncertainty twisting under my ribs, but he caught it—his face dimming. "Unless you—"
"No. No!" I blurted, lunging for the remote with far too much enthusiasm. The plate nearly slid off my lap, and Damien caught it before it spilled.
"I've been dying to watch this new documentary."
"Which one?"
"It's the one on…" I stalled, scrolling blindly through the options and selecting the first thumbnail I saw. "Fast food employees and their 401(k) plans."
I winced. Worst pick imaginable.
He shot me a look—flat, unimpressed, painfully deserved.
"We can watch something else if you want," I said quickly, already scrolling back.
With a mouthful of Brussels sprout, he said, "No. That sounds good."
Liar.
I hit play, cringing as liquefied goop poured into chicken-nugget molds on the screen. Damien set his plate down on the table, not even half-eaten.
Fuck. He'd been eating—really eating—and I picked this steaming pile of garbage to watch?
"You know what, this isn't hitting my spot." I reached for the remote. "Let's watch something else."
I scrolled for what felt like forever. When we hit one hundred and fifty titles, I gave up—dropping the remote beside me with a huff.
"What's wrong?" he asked, concern cracking the carefully crafted support he'd been holding up between us all night.
I opened my mouth… nothing came out.
How was I supposed to tell him that I hated every second of this—
hated pretending everything was fine.
How was I supposed to tell him that my first week in his building had been terrifying.
That Nathan had cornered me, questioned the numbers Falkirk had been given.
That Jennifer—sweet, steady Jennifer—had looked at me with tear-filled eyes, hinting that something didn't add up.
And worst of all…
that I agreed with her.
He watched me, waiting for an answer I didn't have.
The tension between us thickened—like shaking a bottle of Coke, pressure building with nowhere to go.
It burst in a frenzy of hands and mouths.
My teeth caught his bottom lip, and his answering groan vibrated through me—deep and helpless.
I scrambled into his lap, his hands finding my hips, pulling me onto him as he claimed my mouth again. My shirt gave beneath his hands—fabric tearing under the urgency in him, under the week of fear and exhaustion and wanting that snapped loose all at once.
He pulled the cup of my bra down, his mouth finding me like a starving man. "Fuck," I gasped as he sucked me into the heat of his mouth, teeth scraping against the sensitive bud.
I gripped onto his shoulders, grinding against him. His body answered with a shiver, trembling with restraint.
And it hit me—this. This is how I could help him. By giving him—
Me.
"Bedroom. Now," I hissed between my teeth—the most coherent sentence I could manage, if you could call it one at all.
He didn't hesitate. Strong arms slid beneath my thighs and he carried me across the living room, mouths crashing into each other.
A door swung open—kicked, maybe—and I was flying. Tossed through the air and onto the soft mattress. From the bed I watched the muscles under his skin dance as he stripped himself bare.
My pants followed, shimmied down and discarded, the remnants of my shirt and bra joining them on the floor.
Our eyes met. His raked down my body, primal need behind the exhaustion. The look of a man deciding exactly what he was going to do to me.
His cock twitched against his thigh.
Then it was over—
Skin met skin. Hot and electric.
My nails clawed down his back, a smile forming against his mouth as a feral noise fell from his lips.
"Emma," he pleaded, pressing the hard length of himself against my leg.
"Not so fast." My hands found his shoulders and shoved.