With that, he turns and leaves. The guards remain.
I exhale slowly and attempt to sit up. Pain flares, but I grit my teeth and push through it. My legs tremble as I lower them to the cold floor, muscles weak and unreliable.
My clothes sit folded neatly on the visitor’s chair across the room.
It might as well be miles away.
It takes me five minutes to reach it, another eternity to get dressed. By the time I’m done, I’m drenched in sweat and breathing hard, like I’ve run a marathon.
I step into the hallway and nearly collapse when a hand catches me.
“Jesus man, you look like shit,” Jaxon says, holding me upright.
He looks worse. Unshaven. Exhausted. His right bicep is wrapped in bandages.
“Bullet graze,” he adds when he sees me staring. “Barely worth mentioning. I can’t believe he’s pulling you out already.”
“That’s Father,” I mutter.
We reach the elevator. I turn, leaning against the railing, scanning the corridor.
I want to see her again. I am starting to convince myself I had imagined her.
Seconds tick by. Nothing.
The doors begin to slide shut. I feel my hope deflating.
Then.
A small, gentle hand slips between them.
The doors open again.
She stands there, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed, hair messy, a pen sticking out of her bun. Perfection. She steps toward me carefully and holds something out.
“Sorry, Mr Harris,” she says softly. “You forgot your personal belongings.”
She slowly places my phone and wallet into my hand. Lingering for a beat too long.
The contact sends a jolt through me, electric, undeniable.
Before I can stop myself, I find strength I didn’t know I had. My fingers curl around her hand, gently pulling her closer. She gasps softly as she stumbles against my chest.
I lean in, close enough to feel her breath, I lick my lips and murmur, low and certain.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Miss Winters.”
Chapter Four
Emmy
I have always loved showers, especially after a long shift. There is something about standing beneath scalding water that feels like penance, like if I let it burn long enough, it might strip the day from my skin. Tonight, the steam coils around me, heavy and suffocating, and no matter how hard I try, my thoughts circle back to him. To the way his fingers had closed around my hand. To the promise buried in his voice when he said he would see me again.
It has been just over a week since that moment, yet it refuses to loosen its grip on me. It follows me into quiet rooms, into stolen moments of stillness, whispering his name when I least expect it. I tell myself it’s ridiculous, infatuation born from trauma, but my pulse disagrees, thudding hard whenever I remember the weight of his gaze.
My hand glides down my body. Lower, lower. Until it reaches that bundle of nerves that now screams for attention. I rub slow and deliberate circles. My heart thumps. My breathing unsteady. The circles are tighter now, harden. I feel the heat and a high wash over me, as his name leaves me on a gasp “Khai”.
The water keeps running, but I barely notice when it cools. My reflection is blurred by steam, distorted enough that I almost don’t recognise myself. There is something different in my eyes now. Something restless. Something awake.
