Fuck. It wasn’t as if he could dump it in here without losing whatever progress he’d made. And something deep inside him—something he didn’t want to think about—couldn’t do that to her anyway.
He squinted down at the croissant and coffee. How much harm could it do to taste it? There were no blood Shadows in the bakery. He didn’t even know if blood Shadows could work that way. Whatever she was doing with her father clearly wasn’t here. Which was precisely why he needed to get closer to her.
Zach lifted the croissant and took a bite… and had to force himself not to moan. It was still warm, and the pastry was buttery and flakey. It was rich and sweet and perfect. Why the hell had he been avoiding this?
His thoughts must have shown on his face because her smile came back, bright and generous. “You like it.”
“It’s delicious.” It was the truth.
“Would you like some fresh coffee to go with it?”
Not really. But he did want her to stay. He wanted to keep talking to her. To keep seeing that smile. His Shadows fluttered out toward her, and he hauled them back.
No. He wanted her to stay so that he could find out more about Gordon. He wanted to talk to her so that he could start unraveling her lies.
“How about I buy you a cup of coffee instead,” he suggested.
Emma looked back at the counter as if considering whether she could take a break. The bakery was calm, the breakfast rush had finally eased, and her two helpers were chuckling together as they wiped down the surfaces.
Zach nodded across to the chair she was leaning on. “Take a seat. You’ve been on your feet since I got here.”
Emma hesitated for another moment, and he wondered if he’d made the same mistake as before and pushed too hard. But then she pulled out the chair and sat.
“I’m—” Shit. He’d almost said “Zach.” He cleared his throat as if some pastry had caught there and took a sip of coffee to give himself some time. “I’m… Nathan. Nathan Wright.” It was the name he’d decided on during the long hours staring at his ceiling. Ethan wouldn’t mind that he’d borrowed his surname. Hopefully.
He held out his hand for her to shake as he spoke and then instantly regretted it. He didn’t want to touch her. He didn’t want to come anywhere near blood Shadows ever again. He couldn’t forget that feeling. The burning acidity eating into his mind and wrapping itself around his brain was etched into his darkest nightmares. The horror of losing control. The terror of not only losing himself but of doing exactly what James told him to, no matter how wrong it was, because he had no other choice.
God. He didn’t want to touch her—but he had to find out what she was hiding. Somehow, he had to get closer to her, and rejecting her now would be the worst thing he could do.
It didn’t help that Emma was eyeing his hand like it was a venomous snake. She hadn’t even noticed his stumble since she was so busy with her own.
Did she realize that her Shadows could burn? Was she concerned that she might give herself away, somehow? Or did she think she was simply that much better than the norm she obviously assumed him to be?
Fuck it all. He braced himself and left his hand hanging, waiting for her.
She slowly reached out her hand and gripped his. “Emma. Nice to meet you.”
The feel of her skin on his was nothing like he expected. He had prepared himself for something awful, a repeat of Elizabeth’s hand closing on his when it had been filled with the darkness of the blood Shadows. This was the exact opposite.
Warmth traveled up his arm, and with it, an overwhelming sense of connection and exhilaration. It was like the first moment of settling into a hot bath, the sudden scalding heat just before every single muscle relaxed. Or like catching the perfect wave on a summer’s day. Flying through the surf while the sun beat down, sparkling off the water. Total focus and yet total liberation.
His Shadows spun in dizzy circles spiraling over themselves as they tried to reach for her. And, in that moment, he knew the truth. A truth he hadn’t imagined possible and would have avoided utterly if he’d considered it a possibility.
Fuck it all. His Shadows recognized Emma. No, it was worse than that. His Shadows had claimed Gordon’s daughter.
ChapterFive
Emma didn’t knowexactly what she felt, but it was powerful. Something deep and primal and irrevocable. The spreading heat of attraction. Of undeniable desire. And something more. Something utterly familiar and reassuring and safe, like the feeling of opening her front door after a long day and knowing she was finally home.
Nathan had felt something too. He must have. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be staring at her with such a stunned expression, looking as if he couldn’t decide whether to stand up and walk away… or run.
She didn’t know exactly what she’d felt, but she did know what shehadn’tfelt. She hadn’t felt the instant nausea and weird, distorted images flickering across her vision that touching someone—especially their hands—usually brought.
How many times had she touched someone, only to be immediately assaulted by a reel of warped snapshots of their life… too twisted and jumbled to understand, but accompanied by such powerful echoes of their emotions—pain, excitement, fear, loss, joy, grief—that it left her gasping for breath and stumbling away? Dozens of times. Maybe more.
But with Nathan, she only felt that heated thrum of connection and peace. Somehow, his touch soothed her rather than inflaming the chaos. There was no backlash. No parade of churning, confusing images. No emotional feedback. No stabbing pain behind her eye. Just the visceral, primal pleasure of skin on skin and a deep sense of belonging. The feeling of solid ground under her feet after long hours on the water. She could breathe while she touched his hand, and she didn’t want to let it go.
God. She hadn’t even realized just how starved for touch she was. When she was younger, she’d taken the risk. She’d accepted the unsettling emotional storms and confused and contorted images parading through her mind for the benefit of touching someone and being touched in return. But not recently. Not for years. It had become too draining, too exhausting, and sometimes even terrifying, to bother. But this man—this touch—was the eye of the tornado.
