Comfort. And the weather.
Not the truth. But close enough.
By the time the sun sinks again, I’m dressed. Black combat boots, laces loose. Dark jeans worn soft with age. A fitted t-shirt that leaves nothing hidden. As I move, rules line up in my head like commandments.
Don’t touch her unless she comes to you. Don’t crowd her. Don’t rush. Don’t lie.
The last one will cost me.
Her building greets me with unease. The stairwell looks the same, but it isn’t. More cameras sit high in the corners, angled with careful precision.
Not ours.
My father’s reach brushes too close for comfort.
I knock once.
The door opens.
And everything I’ve built fractures.
She stands there in red, tight at the top, flowing at the skirt, a slit climbing high along her thigh like a deliberate provocation. Red strappy heels bare her feet. Loose curls frame her face. Skin glowing under soft light.
Mine.
The need to claim her hits hard and merciless, every instinct screaming to pull her into me, to press her back against the door and remind the world who she belongs to.
I don’t.
I lean in instead, brushing my lips against her cheek, my mouth close to her ear.
“You have no idea,” I murmur softly, voice low and deliberate, “what you’re about to do to me tonight, Little Heaven.”
And I smile, because she hasn’t run.
Chapter Eighteen
Emmy
The hallway feels narrower the moment I step out.
Khai moves beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him without a single point of contact. The click of the door behind us sounds final, sealing me into the choice I’ve already made. My heels echo softly against the concrete as we head for the stairwell, the slit in my dress brushing against my thigh with every step.
I’m painfully aware of how I look.
More painfully aware of howhesees me.
We descend the stairs in silence, his presence heavy and deliberate at my side. He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t touch me. And somehow that makes everything worse. My body wants the contact, wants his hand at my waist, his fingers curling like they did in the club, grounding and possessive all at once.
Outside, the night air is cool, sharp against my flushed skin. His truck waits at the curb, dark and solid, an extension of him in metal and shadow. He steps ahead of me and opens the passenger door, holding it wide with a quiet, controlled courtesy that makes my pulse spike.
I climb in.
The seat is high, the cab enclosed, and suddenly there’s nowhere to look but at him as he leans in. The space collapses around us, his body close, his arm braced near my shoulder as he reaches for the seatbelt.
I freeze.
He buckles me in himself.
