A familiar book lay open in his lap, its spine creased from the number of times he’d read it. No matter what chaos the day had thrown at him, this was his ritual, his constant—this chair, this drink, this moment of stillness before the storm.
Walking in like I owned the place, I caught his attention. His dark eyes flicked up, widening slightly as they took me in. The glass hovered near his lips, forgotten for a second.
“You’re back? How was?—”
I held up my hand, cutting him off. “I’ll brief you later tonight with the rest of the team. For now, I need some silence to unwind and calm my thoughts. Can I do so in here, or is the distant asshole you’ve become still in charge of your personality?”
Caden blinked a few times, clearly caught off guard, then flashed me that slow, charming smile of his. “Distant asshole vacated the premises a few hours ago.” He nodded toward the couch. “It’s all yours.”
I gave him a curt nod, grabbed my book, and settled onto the couch, making a point to ignore him.
“You okay?” he asked softly after a moment, his voice unusually gentle.
“Perfect,” I replied dryly, not bothering to look up.
I didn’t see it, but I could feel his gaze lingering on me. Until he shifted in his seat, going back to his book in silence.
THIRTY-SEVEN
CADEN
A pit of snakes.
Emma had saved Saoirse by letting herself fall into a fucking pit of venomoussnakes—then walked into my study like she’d come back from a casual stroll in the courtyard.
Needless to say, the redheaded knife-happy legend herself was now Emma’s biggest fan.
First briefing in my life that actually stunned me into silence.
And I hated how much I admired Emma for it.
Not just for the stunt—though, fuck me, what a stunt—but for the way she carried it like it was nothing. No theatrics. No ego. Only quiet, ruthless commitment. It was infuriating. And magnetic. And maddening.
The more I tried to keep my distance, the more spectacularly I failed. Resisting her started to feel more exhausting than giving in. So I stopped pretending. Stopped trying to push her away and accepted the inevitable—Emma was a part of my life now.
One night—Scotch in hand, both of us half a glass past restraint—I decided to ask about her translation. I expected her to shut me down, dodge, deflect.
Instead, she leaned in—like she’d been waiting for me to ask. And to my surprise, she seemed just as eager to talk about it as I was.
“As glad as I am to finally understand why I am the way I am,” she said, a note of frustration creeping into her voice, “I’m also disappointed by how little I still know about myself. And now, with our only source of information dead…” Her voice trailed off.
A pang of guilt should’ve hit me. But it didn’t.
I stood by my decision to kill the Elder without hesitation. I hadn’t mourned him, hadn’t regretted it—even if it left us with no further intel on Emma’s magic. And that whole “Gordon” story still seemed like a wild goose chase.
“How come you’re a Healer?” I asked, eyeing her curiously. “Was Julian one too?”
Emma bit the inside of her lip, hesitating. “He must’ve been. I can heal without having the actual knowledge for it, so…yeah, it would make sense.”
I frowned. “What do you mean, without the knowledge?”
She tilted her head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Like when you were poisoned? I didn’t know what I was doing. I just focused on drawing the poison out—not knowing how, or even if it would work. So I kind of…experimented.”
I gave her a flat look. “Again, I am deeply touched by your heartfelt concern for my well-being.”
She snorted, clearly pleased with herself.
I leaned back. “How come your translation is traceable inside a Collective?”
