Fuck it.
I cross the library in quick strides. “You’re going to break your neck,” I say, and Emma startles so badly that the chair tips.
I catch her before she can fall, my hands closing around her waist as I pull her back against my chest. For a second we’re both frozen—her back pressed against my front, my hands spanning her waist, her hair smelling like the shampoo I had stocked in her bathroom mixed with something that’s just…Emma.
I can feel her fast and shallow breathing and the heat of her skin through the thin material of her shirt. I can feel every point where our bodies are touching, and it’s doing things to my ability to think clearly.
“I had it,” Emma says, but her voice comes out breathless and I feel rather than see her swallow hard.
“You really didn’t.” My voice is rougher than it should be. I should let go of her before this moment becomes something I can’t take back.
But my hands don’t seem to have gotten that memo because they’re still on her waist, my thumbs resting just above her hipbones, and I can’t make myself move.
Emma turns her head slightly and suddenly we’re close enough that I can see the exact shade of green in her eyes—lighter near the pupil, darker around the edges, with these gold flecks I never noticed before. Her lips are parted and her cheeks are flushed and she’s looking at me with something thatdefinitelyisn’t hatred.
“Which book did you want?” I ask, because I need to say something before I do something stupid like close the last few inches between us and find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
“What?” Emma blinks, like she’s forgotten what we’re talking about. Which is fair because I’ve also forgotten why my hands are on her waist except that I don’t want to move them.
“The book,” I repeat, forcing myself to focus. “Top shelf. Which one?”
“Oh.” Emma’s face flushes deeper. “The, um. The red one. With the gold lettering.”
I reach up—careful not to let go of her waist with my other hand because the chair is still unstable—and pull down the book she indicated. It’s one of the romance novels she asked for last week, something with a shirtless man on the cover and a title that promises adventure and passion.
“Here,” I say, handing it to her, and our fingers brush as she takes it.
The contact is brief, barely a second, but I feel it like an electric shock. Emma must feel it too because she inhales sharply and her eyes widen.
“Thanks,” she says quietly, and she’s still pressed against me, still close enough that I could?—
I step back abruptly, letting go of her waist and putting necessary distance between us. “Get down from there before you actually fall.”
Emma climbs off the chair with more grace than I expected given how flustered she looks, smoothing down her shirt even though it doesn’t need smoothing. Her cheeks are still pink and she won’t quite meet my eyes.
“I could have gotten it myself,” she says, but there’s no real argument in her voice.
“Sure you could have,” I agree, even though we both know she absolutely could not have. “Right before you broke your neck and gave Dante a heart attack from the liability issues.”
That gets a laugh out of her—a real one, not the sarcastic snort she usually gives me. The sound makes warmth spread through me.
“Your consigliere worries about liability?” Emma moves to sink into her usual reading chair. “Aren’t you all criminals? Isn’t the whole point that you don’t care about legal liability?”
“Dante cares about everything.” I lean against the bookshelf and watch her get comfortable. She tucks her socked feet under her and leans one slim arm on the arm of the chair. She lookscomfortable, like she belongs here in my library and my house. “It’s his job to worry so I don’t have to.”
“Must be nice.” Emma opens her book but doesn’t actually look at it. “Having someone else worry for you.”
“You have someone who worries for you,” I point out. “Your father hasn’t stopped threatening war since the day I took you.” I think about the message Dante had received the other day from the Brennans, threatening severe retribution if we didn’t return Emma in twenty-four hours. I burned the message in the fireplace.
Emma’s expression becomes more guarded. “That’s different. He’s not worried about me. He’s worried about losing his reputation.”
“You don’t actually believe that,” I say, surprised by how certain I sound.
“Don’t I?” Emma looks up at me, and there’s something challenging in her gaze. “He hasn’t tried to get me since he stormed the estate a week or so ago. You’re the one who keeps telling me I’m just leverage against my father.” She puts her book down and turns that sharp green-eyed gaze on me. “So which is it, Leo? Am I his beloved daughter he’s desperate to save, or am I a political tool he’s angry about losing?”
The question feels like a trap, and I’m not sure how to answer it without revealing more than I want to. “You can be both,” I supply lamely.
“That’s a cop-out answer,” Emma says, but her full lips are twitching like she’s fighting a smile.