I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. Blood spatter on my shirt. Bruise forming on my jaw.
“Logan will throw a fit.”
The bathroomin my office is cold.
I strip off the ruined shirt, run water until the mirror fogs with steam. Every movement hurts. Ribs. Shoulder. Ankle, worst of all. I shouldn't have put this much weight on it. Shouldn't have thrown myself into a fight when I can barely walk.
But what should I have done? Someone targeted Emma. Someone used her trauma against her. I'm supposed to sit on the sidelines and heal like a good boy? Fuck that.
I splash water on my face, watch the pink swirl down the drain.
The face in the mirror looks like a stranger. Hollow eyes. Tight jaw. A man running on rage and fear and not much else.
My mother wants me neutralized. My father has a new son on the way. The family I tried to escape followed me into the life I built. Poisoning everything it touches.
And Emma. Beautiful, fierce Emma, who deserves so much better than this mess.
I should let her go. Push her away for her own safety. The noble thing to do.
But I'm not noble. I'm selfish and desperate and so in love with her that the thought of walking away makes me want to put my fist through this mirror.
I pull on a clean shirt, button it with shaking fingers. Compose myself as best I can.
My phone buzzes.
George: Miss Sinclair is on her way up.
My stomach drops.
This is it. She's coming to end things. Face to face. That's the type of woman she is. She won't break up over text.
I'm not ready, but I force myself into the hallway. I'll take this standing.
The elevator doors open.
Emma steps out. Our eyes meet across the lobby. I can't read her expression.
She runs to me, crashes into me, arms around my neck. I lift her without thinking. Ankle screams. I don't care. Ribs protest. I ignore them. Nothing matters except her body pressed against mine, her hands in my hair, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that tastes like desperation and relief and something that might be forgiveness.
Someone whoops. Logan, probably. Someone else claps.
She hides her face in my neck. “Sorry, I'm making a spectacle,” she mumbles, breath warm against my skin.
I couldn't care less, but I need her alone. I lower her carefully, grab her hand, guide her to my office. Lock the door.
We're both breathing hard. She's still holding onto me like I might disappear if she lets go.
Her hand comes up to my face, touches the bruise on my jaw. She frowns.
“What happened?”
“Long morning.”
“Kai.”
“I'll tell you everything. I promise. But first...” I trail off. I don't know what I'm asking for.
“I love you,” she says.
