Another scar on his soul.
Whatever this was—this tightening in his chest, this immediate urge to turn around and call her a liar because he knew what passed between them—he did not understand, and that made it dangerous.
He said nothing. Didn’t turn. Didn’t answer. Just pulled his shirt over his head and fastened his belt with more force than necessary.
That was better. Anger, he understood. Pride, he understood.
“This changes nothing. You stay with me. You don’t go out alone.”
Emma’s look was scathing. “I’ll stay for my own safety, not because I trust you.” She bent and gathered her clothes from the floor with efficient, unhurried movements. No dramatics. No accusation.
He could deal with anger. With shouting. Even blame.
Quiet dignity was harder.
The bathroom door closed with a soft click.
Zach stared at it. One second. Two. Three. Then he forced himself to move. He should leave. Give her space. Put walls between this and whatever comes next.
But he couldn’t. Not with an infiltrator on the island. Not with sabotage already underway. Not with the threat to her. Her safety came first. Even now.
Especially now.
He crossed to the seating area, pulled the Gerber StrongArm from its sheath, and weighed it in his hand. Solid. Familiar. Honest.
Better.
He couldn’t look at that section of wall. He moved to the chair facing the window and pulled the whetstone from his go-bag. Set it on his thigh. Pressed the blade to the stone at thirty degrees, and drew it through the first slow stroke.
Shhhhk.
Order.
Shhhhk.
Control.
Slow. Precise. Repeatable.
Steel responded to skill. Pressure. Angle. Consistency. It didn’t complicate things or ask questions. It didn’t look at him like she had.
His jaw tightened.
He checked the edge in the moonlight. Reset the angle. Drew the blade again.
Marcus. He was the problem.
Shhhhk.
Not Emma.
Not the wall.
Not the ghost of her touch still burning across his shoulders.
Shhhhk.
The sabotage was what mattered. Someone had compromised the resort’s systems. The pattern was specific. Personal.
