A faint sound drifted to him.
Barely audible. The quietest possible hitch in Emma’s breathing—caught, held, then released. Like someone pressing both hands over something to keep it contained. Like someone very good at not letting things escape.
Like someone who’d learned the hard way that showing pain just handed other people something to work with.
The realization fisted in his gut.
Zach’s hand tightened on the grip.
Fuck.
She wasn’t breaking. She was strong enough to hurt in silence, to deploy her own control as armor in the same way he did—and somehow that was worse than tears would have been.
This quiet was something else entirely. It was personal. It was specific to her, the way her steadiness was uniquely hers, and he’d put it there.
He could go to her.
Knock on the door.
Tell her the truth.
This wasn’t about her not mattering; it was the opposite. That was why he had to cut it off. She’d gotten under his guardbefore he’d seen the breach. Caring about her had gone from inconvenience to liability faster than he’d thought possible.
His hand tightened on the knife.
No.
If he said any of that aloud, it became real. And once it was real, Marcus could use it.
Better she think he was a bastard. Better she stay angry. Better she stay distant. Better she carry this small, specific pain and stayalive.
Even if it meant sitting here listening to the careful silence of someone who was very good at crying without making a sound.
He turned away and sat back down. Pulled out the whetstone again with the automatic reach of long habit.
Shhhhk.
The rhythm should settle him. Should push the noise back into manageable order.
Shhhhk.
It didn’t.
The tempo felt wrong tonight, a weapon slightly out of true.
Shhhhk.
Because every pass of the blade tracked against the sound of Emma’s breathing. Every breath she controlled was another reminder of the hurt he caused, calling it protection. Because none of his logic changed the fact that he wanted to go to that door.
He checked the edge again. Perfect.
Didn’t matter.
He sat back in the chair, blade in one hand, stone in the other, and stared into the dark window. Nothing would be the same now. There was no going back to who he was before Emma, and it was unlikely she’d forgive him for tonight.
He’d spent twenty years learning how to identify threats early. Contain them. Neutralize them. He’d protect her, even if she hated him.
Tonight he’d done the dumbest thing possible.
