7. Emily
Emily
The scent of garlic and rosemary lingers in the air as I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel, stepping back to admire my work.
Dinner is set—grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.
It’s almost too perfect, the kind of meal that suggests I actually put effort into it.
Which I didn’t.
Absolutely not.
This isn’t a date-date. It’s just… dinner. A friendly, engaged-couple dinner. For appearances.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. Who am I kidding? I’ve been thinking about tonight all day, catching myself checking the clock every twenty minutes like some love-struck idiot.
This isn’t real, I remind myself.
The lie doesn’t sit as well as it should.
I shake off the thought and step into the living room, but the second my eyes sweep across the space, my breath catches.
One of my grandmother’s porcelain figurines—a tiny, delicate ballerina—lies on the floor.
I know I didn’t leave it there.
My pulse spikes.
Slowly, I kneel, picking it up. It’s unbroken, but the placement is wrong. I always keep it on the bookshelf by the window, tucked safely between a stack of old hardcovers.
My hands shake as I turn it over, searching for any sign that I’m imagining things.
I want to be imagining things.
But deep down, I know better.
I fumble for my phone, my fingers clumsy as I unlock the screen. Before I can dial, the doorbell rings.
I jump, my heart slamming into my ribs.
For a long second, I just stand there, staring at the door like it might explode.
Then, moving slowly, I approach.
I inhale sharply, grip the doorknob, and pull it open.
Henry stands there, holding flowers.
I blink.
“Uh,” I say intelligently.
He shifts slightly, his expression unreadable. “You invited me to dinner.”
I stare at the flowers, at the way his large hands are wrapped awkwardly around the stems, like he’s not sure what to do with them.
“You brought flowers?”
He exhales. “Yes, Carter. I brought flowers.”
I don’t know why that makes something squeeze in my chest.
He steps inside, eyes scanning the room like he always does, his instincts never fully off. Then, his gaze settles on my face, and instantly, his expression sharpens.
“What’s wrong?”
I open my mouth—deny, deflect, pretend I’m fine—but my fingers tighten around the figurine, betraying me.
I hold it up instead. “This was on the floor.”
His brow furrows. “And?”
“And I didn’t put it there.”
He’s already moving before I finish the sentence. His posture shifts—tense, alert, his body angling slightly in front of mine.
“Anyone else been in the house?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. At least… I don’t think so.”
His jaw tightens. He moves toward the door, checking the lock, then strides to the windows, testing them one by one.
“Your security’s intact,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “Nobody’s getting in here unless they know your door code.”
That does not make me feel better.
Before I can say anything, he pulls out his phone and dials.
“Chief,” he says, his voice low and firm. “We might have a problem.”
I wrap my arms around myself as he explains the situation, my stomach knotting tighter with each passing second.
Then, after a beat of silence, Henry exhales. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that.”
I step closer. “What?”
He hangs up, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Chief Tom says I’m staying here from now on.”
My eyes widen. “You’re what?”
His expression is grim. “You’re being watched, Emily. And until we know by who, I’m not leaving you alone.”
I swallow hard. “But people will talk—”
He shrugs. “Let them. We’re engaged, remember?”
I groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. “This is a nightmare.”
Then, quieter, I say, “Maybe I shouldn’t have come here at all. Maybe they’re finding me easier in Harmony Springs.”
Henry steps closer, his gaze pinning me in place. “You can’t run every time.”
I bristle. “I’m not running—I’m surviving.”
Something in his face softens, and before I can pull away, he reaches out, his fingers brushing my wrist.
“You don’t have to do it alone anymore,” he murmurs.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
His touch is warm, steady—something I shouldn’t want but do.
And that scares me more than anything else.
I tell Henry I’d like to go to bed early and try to find some sleep to get away from my scare, but hours later, I’m still awake. The house is too quiet. Every creak, every whisper of wind outside makes my skin crawl.
I toss and turn, my nerves frayed, my breath uneven.
Then—
A shadow appears in the doorway.
I sit up sharply, my heart in my throat—until Henry steps forward, his bare chest catching the glow of the moonlight.
I freeze.
He’s shirtless.
Dog tags glint against his chest, his muscles cut and defined, scars mapping across his skin like silent battle stories.
His voice is quieter than usual. “Can’t sleep?”
I swallow. “I keep hearing things.”
He nods, stepping inside. “I already checked the perimeter. Twice.”
His presence alone settles something inside me.
“Come sit with me,” he says.
I hesitate, but eventually, I slip out of bed, following him to the fireplace.
We sit together, the flickering glow casting long shadows across the walls.
The fire crackles beside us, throwing golden light across Henry’s face, the sharp angles of his jaw softened by flickering shadows. The heat from the flames is nothing compared to the warmth radiating off him, his solid frame mere inches from mine.
I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting here—him in his usual quiet stillness, me pretending I don’t notice the way his presence sets my nerves alight. But then my gaze catches on a jagged scar cutting across his shoulder, a stark contrast against his otherwise smooth skin.
I reach out before I can think better of it, fingertips ghosting over the raised flesh. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense—he just watches me, unreadable, as if waiting for my reaction.
“How’d it happen?” I murmur.
He exhales slowly, as if considering whether to tell me at all. Then, finally, “Yemen. A mission went sideways.” His voice is calm, but there’s a weight beneath it, something unsaid. “Took a bullet here while getting out.”
I trace the edge of the scar, the thought of him bleeding, in pain, making something twist deep inside me. “Does it still hurt?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not anymore.”
A challenge flares in me. “Can you feel this?” I press my lips to the mark, a soft, lingering kiss against the memory of his pain.
The moment my lips meet his skin, everything shifts.
His breath hitches, his fingers twitching at his sides. I feel the tension coil between us, thick and heavy, stretching like a taut wire about to snap.
I pull back slowly, meeting his gaze. His eyes—usually so controlled—are darker now, stormy, locked onto mine with an intensity that makes my stomach tighten.
I should stop.
But I don’t.
Instead, Henry moves first.
His hand cups the back of my neck, his touch rough but reverent, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s not tentative. It’s consuming.
The fire behind us is nothing compared to the fire between us. His lips move against mine with an urgency that leaves me breathless, like he’s been holding back for too long and has finally given in.
I sink into him, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him impossibly closer. He groans against my lips, a deep, needy sound that sends a shiver down my spine.
His hands roam, sliding down my back, gripping my waist as he pulls me onto his lap. My legs straddle his, my body flush against the hard planes of his chest. The feel of him beneath me—solid, warm, unyielding—makes my head spin.
Henry’s lips leave mine, trailing along my jaw, down the curve of my throat, his stubble scratching deliciously against my skin. I tilt my head back, offering more, needing more.
He doesn’t hesitate.
His mouth explores, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, down to the hollow of my throat. His hands slide beneath my sweater, fingers splaying across my bare back, thumbs grazing the dip of my spine.
Every nerve in my body is alight, every touch, every kiss sending heat pooling low in my belly. My hips shift instinctively, a slow, teasing roll against him, and he exhales sharply, his grip tightening on me.
“Emily,” he groans, his voice rough, strained.
I don’t answer. Instead, I rake my nails down his naked chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath my touch.
His hands move to my waist, fingers slipping under the hem of my sweater, lifting it inch by inch until cool air kisses my heated skin. His palms are warm, exploring, mapping every curve like he’s memorizing me by touch alone.
When our mouths collide again, the kiss turns deeper, filthier. My teeth graze his lower lip, and he growls, one hand tangling in my hair as the other grips my hip, guiding my movements against him.
I can feel him—his restraint hanging by a thread, the heat of his body against mine, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing into me through his jeans.
The need between us is intoxicating, overwhelming.
I want him.
Badly.
More than I should.
My hands slide down, fingers skimming the waistband of his jeans. He tenses beneath me, his breathing ragged, his grip tightening like he’s barely holding on.
And then—
Bzzzzzzzt.
I freeze.
A second buzz vibrates through the air, the unmistakable sound of my phone coming from the coffee table. The spell between us shatters like glass.
Henry exhales, resting his forehead against my shoulder, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath me. I’m still straddling him, still feeling the heat radiating between us, but reality comes crashing in like a cold wave.
With trembling fingers, I reach for my phone.
One New Message.
I don’t even read it. It’s probably spam, but the content doesn’t matter. That was a reminder. A warning. A sharp, unwanted dose of reality that has my stomach twisting.
I swallow hard, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the way my body still hums from his touch, the way his hands still rest on my skin, the way I almost let myself fall.
My rule.
No getting in deep with violent men.
And Henry? Henry is dangerous. Not just because of his past, not just because of his scars—but because of how badly I want him.
I force myself to move, pulling my sweater back down, my heart still pounding in my chest. Henry watches me, his expression unreadable, but his jaw is tight, his hands clenched like he’s bracing himself for me to walk away.
I can’t look at him when I say, “I should go.”
A pause. A heavy, unbearable silence.
Then, finally, a quiet, “Yeah.”
I stand on shaky legs, my body still burning from his touch, and grab my phone. My fingers tighten around it like it’s some kind of lifeline, like it’s the only thing keeping me from turning back to him and forgetting everything else.
I make it to the door before I hear him murmur, “Emily.”
I hesitate.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” he says, his voice rough, almost desperate.
I close my eyes, my throat tightening.
I can’t say it because it would be a lie. So instead, I do the only thing I can do.
I walk away. I cannot want him. I cannot be this close to him.
Back in bed, I stare at the ceiling, still buzzing from that kiss. Reminding myself how much I should not want Henry or why he is everything I swore I’d never want doesn’t seem to work anymore.
So, like an idiot, I do the dumbest thing I can think of.
I grab my phone.
And I type out a message to my ex, Dane Jacobs.
Hey, this is Emily.
I’m okay, just needed to go off for a while.
Hope you’re doing okay too?
The second I hit send, regret slams into me.
What the hell am I doing?
I stare at the screen for a beat.
Then, before logic can betray me, I delete the message, bury my face in the pillow and scream into it. Dane seems pale, boring and uninspiring now when compared to Henry.
No matter how hard I try to remind myself of the kind of man I usually go for—none of them have ever made me feel the way Henry Walker just did. And that scares the living daylights out of me.