Now I understand.
He doesn’t manage problems.
He erases them.
Makes them disappear.
Destroys them.
Kills them.
I just stand there, shaking, realising exactly how sharp his shadows truly are, and how willingly I’ve walked into them.
The world tilts.
One moment I’m standing, the next I’m not, the floor rushing up to meet me as my legs give out beneath the weight of it all. I slide down until my back hits the kitchen island, the cold stone seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. I drag my knees to my chest, folding in on myself as though I can make myself smaller, quieter, invisible.
My hands fly to my head, fingers tangling in my hair as everything crashes in at once.
The club shooting.
The bodyguards posted at his hospital door. The way Khai’s eyes had followed me after shopping, sharp, assessing, possessive. The whisper to my attacker, low and lethal, promising something far worse than pain.Him standing in my apartment, injured and bleeding, yet somehow still in control.
I knew he was dangerous.
I just didn’t know how deep the darkness ran.
A broken sound tears from my throat as tears spill freely, blurring everything. I should have known. Ishouldhave felt it, the warning hum beneath his touch, the violence coiled so neatly beneath his restraint. But I was blinded by him. By his gravity. By the way he made me feel chosen.
Stupid.
Naïve.
My chest tightens painfully as the truth settles in, this isn’t just danger. This is annihilation wrapped in devotion.
I need to leave.
Now.
Panic jolts me into motion. I scramble to my feet, knees shaking violently, tears streaking down my face and soaking into the black T-shirt I’m wearing,hisT-shirt. The irony almost makes me laugh hysterically.
I force myself to move quietly as I slip back into his bedroom.
Khai is still asleep.
Relief floods me, sharp and breathless. I don’t look at him for too long, I can’t. One glance might undo me. I grab my phone from the bedside table and retreat into the bathroom, hands clumsy as I snatch my scrubs from where I’d discarded them the night before.
Then I’m moving again, back into the living space, dragging the clothes on with shaking fingers. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure it must carry down the hall.
As I pull the last piece into place, I dial Tate’s number.
The phone rings.
Once.
Twice.
“Em.”
