CADEN
In the weeks after our night of failed vulnerability, and Walter McGrath’s grand debut, I started to open myself up to Emma more and more—not only about trivial things, but real personal shit.
Rather than reading in my study, I told her about my childhood, and how I was raised by Sean’s parents from the age of fourteen—though I didn’t go into the reasons behind it. And she didn’t press, again. Which said a lot abouther.
In preference to walking her in silence to her room, I told her about my training years in Australia, about Stephen’s brutal methods, how he first trained me as a Specialist before realizing my skill set fit better in an Offensive role.
Instead of organizing practical jokes, I talked about becoming First Offensive of Crown, about how I’d gathered my friends—my people—and built what I considered the perfect team.
We talked for hours every night.
And the more I talked, the moreshedid.
Emma talked about her life as a lawyer, how she never had any close friends except for Lisa and Julian, until she came to Crown, where, for the first time, she felt like she truly fit in.
That admission made my heart fucking jump.
She spoke of her parents and the incredible humans they were, achieving so much at a young age, and I began to understand where her insane fear of failure stemmed from.
We were growing closer with every conversation, and fuck if it wasn’t exactly what I wanted.
But there was still one subject she kept locked down. One she’d fortified with so many high-defense walls, even Petru Stoyan would’ve been impressed.
I’d been waiting for the right moment to bring it up. But with Emma, there was never a right moment—only the moments she let happen.
Which she finally did on a Friday night.
It was after midnight. The estate was quiet, the kind of silence which only came when everyone else had long since turned in. The night air was crisp, cool against my skin as I leaned against one of the stone pillars outside, a cigarette burning lazily between my fingers.
I heard her footsteps before I saw her. Light, measured. Then she stepped into view, arms crossed, her knowing gaze sweeping over me before locking onto the cigarette.
“You smoke, Colt?” She cocked a brow, and tilted her head a bit. “That shit’ll kill you, you know.”
Her tone was dry, edged with something teasing—but underneath, I caught the faintest trace of disapproval.
I exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching the way it curled into the night air before glancing at her. “And yet, here I stand alive. A medical mystery.”
Her lips twitched, like she was fighting back a smirk. But she didn’t let it slip.
Instead, she stepped closer, her arms still folded, the glow of the embers reflecting in her eyes.
I knew she wasn’t here to comment on my smoking. And I had a feeling this conversation was about to get interesting.
“Seriously, this shit is bad for you.”
I smirked, exhaling a thin trail of cancerous haze. “For humans. We simply go see a Healer, and we’re back to our tar-free selves.”
She shook her head but didn’t walk away. Rather, she studied me, wary and assessing.
“What?”
“Just…” she hesitated. “People often end up doing the opposite of what you expect. You’re always so composed, so in control. Everyone here looks up to you, and you dress like a fucking billionaire mob boss. I’d expect you to light a cigar maybe—but here you are, smoking cigarettes like some fifteen-year-old rebel.”
I snorted. “Not a fan of cigarettes?”
She shrugged. “My dad’s a doctor. He’d kill me if he ever caught me with one.” Then, after a beat, she added, “Though I learned how to smoke cigars from him. We’d share one every summer. Only the one though.”
“Quite the dichotomy.”
