The fear.
The exhaustion from carrying both our worlds on his shoulders for forty-eight straight hours.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” His shoulders lowered by barely an inch. “It’s okay. I’m not mad.”
But he was. That was unmistakable.
But not at me.
And that difference settled between us like gravity.
His focus fell to my throat.
To the collar still resting against my skin.
“Disobeying orders not even two days after…” His fingers made a slow gesture toward it. “That.”
The chain suddenly felt hot—tight—burning with shame and disappointment.
My eyes stung.
His face fell.
“I’m sorry.” He sighed heavily. “I should have known better than to throw out an order without an explanation. You are Emma Sinclair after all.”
A wry curve cut into his mouth. Then a laugh.
He slumped back into the chair, the fire in him dimmed but not extinguished. “I wanted you home for a few reasons,” he said, settling into something steadier. “The first being that when I left you this morning, you were an emotional wreck. And peeling myself away from you?” His throat worked, the admission rawer than he probably meant it to be. “It was hard. Really hard.”
I stiffened, guilt settling between my shoulder blades.
“And second,” he continued, “because I’m already running damage control.”
“How?” The word escaped.
“I’ve already told the press that Falkirk stands with Elion. That we’re aligned. I bought you two weeks.” He lifted two fingers, the gesture firm. “Two weeks before you need to say a single word publicly.”
I blinked, voice catching. “Thank you—”
He cut clean through it. “I met with the board this morning. They weren’t thrilled, but they agreed. Falkirk won’t retaliate, won’t distance themselves, won’t do anything—not until the deadline.”
Dread coiled through me. “We won’t have answers in two weeks.”
“You won’t,” he said. No hesitation. “But I will.”
The tone of it—final, unyielding—drew my spine straight.
His gaze locked on mine with a heat that stripped every excuse from my tongue.
“When I put that collar around your neck, I made a promise, too, Emma. A promise to protect you. All of you. So for the love of god—” He leaned forward, voice lowering into something that felt like a vow, not a command. “Let me.”
The words hit harder than I was prepared for. Tears pricked, hot and immediate—emotion rising with no name and no shape.
His expression softened, the fight in him folding into something unbearably tender.
“You can’t cry here,” Damien murmured—not scolding, just honest. “It’ll send the wrong message.”
