“I’m glad you had Rory after.”
His jaw shifts before he answers. “If it wasn’t for her . . .” He blows out a slow breath. “I’m not so sure I’d be here.”
His fingers flex against the cushion behind me. “I was angry as hell, but her quiet support dragged me out of a hole I wasn’t climbing out of on my own.”
A silence that feels less like grief and more like peace settles over him.
I find myself leaning back until his bicep brushes my skin.
This might be the safest I’ve ever felt.
Until my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I glance down to find Jeremiah’s name.
I lock the screen.
Not tonight, asshole.
On the TV, the announcer’s voice spikes as the Diablos send a line drive into the gap.
Emmett’s focus snaps back to the game, his brow furrowing before a low, satisfied hum slips loose when the runner makes it safely to third.
The sound rolls through me in ways it absolutely shouldn’t.
“Guess you were right,” I say, forcing my voice to stay light. “The Diablos might actually pull this off.”
His mouth tips at one corner.
“Told you.”
Yes, he did.
Emmett Slate doesn’t open up by accident, he makes you earn your way in.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
EMMETT
Sleep doesn’t come easily. For as long as I can remember, it’s come in fragments.
The reasons have changed over the years. I no longer fall asleep hungry or spend winter nights shivering after the power is shut off.
That ended when my parents were found with needles in their arms.
Then everything changed.
And for a while after my dad’s parents had gotten custody of me, sleep came easier. I learned how to rest with only occasional nightmares under their roof.
Until the fire.
Then I lost everything for a second time, and I never recovered.
Now, I’m lucky to drift off for all of an hour or two before a nightmare yanks me under.
It’s always the same smoke and heat. I’m trapped in the same place, feeling the same suffocating panic.
Only this time, it isn’t Rory crying out from behind the flames.
