I nod, my arm still wrapped protectively around Emma. “Agreed.”
We move to my study, which is mostly intact. There’s a few bullet holes in the walls and shattered glass. But the furniture is still standing and the massive oak table in the center is undamaged.
Emma sits next to me, her chair pulled close enough that our legs are touching under the table. I keep one hand on her thigh the entire time—partly because I need to touch her and have the physical reassurance that she’s here and alive and real and pregnant with my child.
I’m so fucking grateful that we’re both still breathing and the assault didn’t end with one or both of us dead, and I get to have this future with her.
And partly because I know it pisses Connor off.
Old habits die hard.
Every time I touch Emma—when I pull her chair out for her or my hand settles on her thigh, or when I lean over to whisper something in her ear, my fingers brushing against hers on the table—I see Connor’s reaction.
His jaw twitches. Just slightly. A tiny muscle jumping under his skin.
His hands flex on the table like he’s imagining them wrapped around my throat.
The muscle in his temple jumps.
It’s petty and immature and definitely not helping the situation at all. Honestly, it’s probably making everything worse.
I do it anyway, especially since Emma leans into my touch. She doesn’t pull away when my hand settles on her lower back. I whisper in her ear, “You okay? Need water? Need a break?” She smiles slightly and shakes her head.
Watching Connor Brennan’s control fray at the edges is deeply,deeplysatisfying.
Connor sits across from us with two of his advisors. They’re heavily armed even though we agreed to no guns in here.
Dante sits on my right, his face blank and Luca on my left, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.
The negotiation starts and it’s immediately clear this isn’t going to be easy.
I was right. It wasn’t going to be easy. It takeshours.
Hours of back and forth, of threats barely disguised as suggestions, of concessions and compromises and drawing lines in the sand that we both know might get crossed.
Connor wants Emma home. I want Emma here. Emma wants both of us to shut up and let her make her own decisions.
“I’m staying with Leo,” she says for probably the tenth time, her voice tight with frustration. “Can we please move past this? Or are we going to keep arguing in circles until the baby’s born?”
Connor’s eyes flash with irritation. “You’re pregnant, Emma. You need proper medical care. Prenatal vitamins. Regular checkups. A stable environment with your mother nearby. Not”—he gestures around the destroyed estate—“this.”
“This is my home,” Emma says flatly.
Her father’s hand slams on the table and I tense. “This is a war zone!”
“Which you created!” Emma’s voice rises and I feel her lean forward. “Youshowed up with an army, Dad.Youstarted shooting. So maybe let’s not pretend Leo’s the problem when you’re the one who turned his house into a battlefield.”
I squeeze her thigh gently, recognizing that sparks are flying and the whole room may be proverbially lit up soon. “Emma. Let me handle this.”
She stops and glares at me, but she takes a breath. She’s clearly biting back about a dozen more sarcastic comments and it’s taking visible effort.
“Fine,” she mutters. “Handle it. I’ll just sit here and be pregnant.”
I turn to Connor, keeping my voice level. “Emma stays with me. That’s not up for negotiation. But we can talk about visitation, access, and making sure she and the baby have everything they need. Medical care. Security. Whatever it takes to keep them safe and healthy.”
I let my hand slide from Emma’s thigh to rest briefly on her stomach, making my point crystal clear.
Connor’s hands flex on the table so hard his knuckles go white.