I bark out a laugh, surprised by the comment, and I can feel Emma’s smile against my chest. “Are you seriously making jokes right now?”
“I’m coping,” Emma rebuts, and I can hear both the teasing and the genuine emotion in her voice. “If I don’t make a joke I’m going to start crying again, and I’ve already soaked your chest. I’m trying to be considerate here.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I’m grinning against her hair.
“You love it,” Emma shoots back, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. Her eyes are still red from crying but they’re bright now, full of that spark that makes her Emma. “Admitit. You love that I make inappropriate jokes during serious emotional moments.”
“I do,” I admit, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I really fucking do.”
Emma’s smile softens into something more genuine, less teasing, and she leans down to gently kiss me.
When she pulls back and settles against my chest again, her voice is quieter but steady.
“When my father comes—and we both know he’s coming—I’m choosing you. Not him. Not my family. You.”
My arms tighten around her involuntarily at her words, unable to believe what she just said. “Emma,” I manage to choke out, my heart beating a thousand miles a minute, “that choice is going to cost you everything. Your family, your father, your old life?—”
“I know,” she says simply. “But I’ll have you. And that’s enough.”
I hold her tighter, pressing my face into her hair, breathing in the scent of her. I want to tell her not to do it, that she needs to choose her family when the time comes because losing them will break her.
But I’m also selfish and love her desperately enough to accept her choice. I’m so unbelievably grateful for it even as I know what it will cost her.
“Okay,” I say quietly, because that’s all I can offer. That and a silent vow that I will protect her, no matter what comes.
Whatever happens with Connor, whatever war is coming, I will keep her safe.
Even if it means facing down her father with a gun and becoming the monster she once called me.
Because I love her.
And love, I’m learning, makes monsters of us all.
18
EMMA
I wake up to Leo’s dark eyes already on me, his large hand curled around my hip, and my heart does this stupid fluttering thing.
It’s really not fair how good he looks early in the morning. His dark hair is messy from sleep and there’s stubble shadowing his jaw. But it’s his eyes that make my heart squeeze. He’s looking at me with such soft eyes, as if he can’t believe this is real.
“Morning,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep. God, I love that voice.
“Hi.” I can hear the dopey smile in my own voice, but I don’t even care.
I can’t believe this perfectly imperfect man loves me back. This man who kidnapped me, who was supposed to use me for revenge, who’s killed people and runs a criminal empire—he looks at me like I hung the moon. And somehow, impossibly, I love him too. I love him so much it terrifies me.
“What are you thinking about?” Leo asks, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
“You,” I admit. “How much I love you.”
Leo’s eyes darken then he’s kissing me, pulling me against him, and I get lost in the feeling of his mouth on mine, his hands on my body.
We make love slowly, taking our time even though we both know he has meetings this morning. I love the sounds he makes—these low groans when I touch him in certain places, the way he breathes my name against my skin. I love the weight of him, the solid warmth of his body pressed against mine, how his muscles flex under my hands when he moves.
“Emma,” he murmurs, his forehead pressed to mine, his eyes locked on my face like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, and the tenderness of it makes me want to cry. This man. This impossible, complicated, beautiful man. And he’s mine.