Page 15

Eleven

Emery

" W ell," Logan says, settling back at my kitchen table with his morning coffee and a satisfied smile, "you look thoroughly debauched."

I nearly choke on my own coffee. "Logan!"

"What? I'm just making an observation. Your hair is still messed up from someone's hands, you've got that glow that comes from excellent sex, and you arrived home at the same time I got here." He takes a delicate sip. "Elementary, my dear Watson."

Heat floods my cheeks. "And how do you know I didn’t have to go to the store? I could have been all out of vanilla oat milk. And you’re nosy."

"I'm observant. There's a difference. And you had no groceries." He leans forward, studying my face with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "So. How was your evening with Sheriff Tall-Dark-and-Brooding?"

"It was..." I search for words that won't make me sound like a lovesick teenager. "Good. Really good."

"Good? That's it? Honey, you look like you got thoroughly claimed by an alpha male. I'm going to need more details than 'good.'"

Before I can respond, the front doorbell chimes. I frown, wondering if it’s Colt, but when I pull the door open there’s a police officer standing there instead.

"Morning," he says, nodding to both of us. "I'm looking for Emery Langston."

My stomach drops. "That's me."

"Ma'am, I have some paperwork for you. From the state." He hands me an official-looking envelope. "Regarding your testimony in the Hendricks case."

The world tilts sideways.

Hendricks. As in Jenna Hendricks. As in the fire four years ago that changed everything.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

The officer nods and leaves, and I'm left staring at the envelope like it might burst into flames.

"Emery?" Logan's voice sounds far away. "What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I..." I can't form words. Can't breathe. Because suddenly I'm fifteen again, standing outside a burning house and watching firefighters carry people out. Watching one particular firefighter—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with purpose even through the smoke. The one who saved me.

I wouldn’t be standing here today if it wasn’t for him.

Pulling open the envelope, I walk in a daze back to the kitchen table and flick through the papers. Details on the fire, on how it started, how it spread, who was involved…

"Oh my God," I breathe, nearly dropping the papers.

"What?" Logan is beside me now, his hand on my shoulder. "Talk to me."

"I told you about the fire? Four years ago. Jenna... My best friend." I look up at Logan, my eyes wide with realization. "It was him, Logan. Colt Boone was there. He was one of the firefighters."

His eyebrows draw together as he tries to peer over my shoulder at the report. "Are you sure?"

The papers are part of a subpoena to testify in the wrongful death lawsuit that Jenna's family filed against the property management company. The case has been dragging through the courts for years, but apparently, it's finally going to trial.

But it’s the incident report attached to the legal documents that I hold up for him. The official fire department report that lists all the responding personnel.

Including one Colt Boone, firefighter, rescue team.

"Jesus," Logan breathes. "He was there. He actually was there."

I scan the report, my heart hammering. Three people rescued: Margaret Hendricks, age 43. Jenna Hendricks, age 15. Emery Langston, age 15.

Wait. That's not right.

I read it again, more carefully this time. Margaret and Jenna Hendricks rescued at 11:47 PM. Emery Langston rescued at 12:03 AM.

Jenna died at 12:15 AM when the second floor collapsed.

Which means...

"She went back in," I whisper. "After they got us out, Jenna went back in for her cat."

And Colt tried to save her.

The report is clinical, factual, but I can read between the lines. Firefighter Boone attempted rescue of victim who had re-entered the structure. Access blocked by structural collapse at 12:09 AM. Victim located deceased at 12:47 AM after fire suppression.

My phone buzzes. A text from Colt.

Colt : Good morning, baby girl. Did you get to work safely?

I stare at the message, my chest tight with a mixture of emotions I can't even name. He saved me. Four years ago, when I was just a scared teenager, Colt Boone carried me out of that burning house and gave me a second chance at life.

And he's been carrying the guilt of not saving Jenna ever since.

"You have to tell him," Logan says quietly.

"Tell him what?"

"That you know. That you remember. That you don't blame him for what happened to Jenna."

"But I don't remember," I admit. "Not really. Just flashes. Smoke and noise and someone lifting me up." I look at the report again. "I was unconscious when he carried me out. I never saw his face."

"But you know now."

"Yeah. I know now."

My phone buzzes again.

Colt : Everything okay? You haven't responded.

Then, a minute later:

Colt : I'm coming over.

"Shit," I breathe. "He's coming here. Well, to work. He thinks we’re there…"

"Good," Logan says firmly. "You two need to talk about this."

I jump at the sound of a truck door slamming outside. Through the window, I can see Colt striding toward the office, his expression dark with concern.

"He looks worried," Logan observes.

Terrified is more like it. And when he pushes through the front door and sees my face, that terror turns to something sharper.

"What's wrong?" He's across the room in three strides, his hands on my face, checking me over like he's looking for injuries. "Baby girl, talk to me."

I can't find words. Can't do anything but stare at this man who saved my life and has been torturing himself with guilt ever since.

"Emery?" His voice is gentle now, concerned. "What happened?"

Wordlessly, I hold out the incident report.

He takes it, frowning, and I watch his face change as he reads. Watch the color drain from his cheeks, watch his jaw tighten, watch his hands start to shake.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"You saved me," I whisper.

He doesn't deny it. Just stands there holding that piece of paper like it weighs a thousand pounds.

"I tried to save her too," he says finally, his voice broken. "I tried, but I couldn't—"

"I know." I reach for him, but he steps back.

"You don't understand." His eyes are wild now, desperate. "I failed her. I failed her mother. I failed you. When I left her in there to die—"

"You didn't. The report says—"

"I don't care what the fucking report says!" The words explode out of him. "I was supposed to get everyone out. That was my job. And I failed."

"Colt—"

"You were fifteen." He's backing toward the door now, like he can't stand to be in the same room with me. "Fifteen years old, and I let your best friend die."

"It wasn't your fault—"

"Wasn't it?" He stops, his blue eyes burning with self-hatred. "You think this is some kind of cosmic joke? You think it's okay that I'm fucking the girl I saved while the girl I failed is dead in the ground?"

"Don't you dare."

"Don't I dare what? Tell the truth? Face reality?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Jesus Christ, Emery. What kind of sick fuck does this make me?"

"It makes you human," I say firmly, standing up. "It makes you someone who carries too much guilt and blames himself for things beyond his control."

"I'm done with this conversation." He turns toward the door.

"You let me fall for you while sitting on this?" The words come out sharp, cutting. "You knew who I was this whole time and said nothing?"

He freezes, his hand on the door handle. "That's different—"

"Is it? You think it's okay that you're fucking the girl you saved while keeping secrets about the girl who died?" I throw his own words back at him, and I can see them hit their mark.

"Emery—"

"I need air." I push past him, heading for the door, but his hand shoots out and grips my elbow.

"You don't walk away from me," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Not now. Not ever."

I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. "Let go of me."

"No." His pale eyes are burning with something wild and desperate. "You don't get to storm off just because this got complicated."

"Complicated?" I laugh. "You think this is just complicated? You saved my life and never told me. You've been carrying guilt about my best friend and never said a word. That's not complicated, Colt. That's lying."

Something dangerous flickers across his face. "I was protecting you."

"From what? The truth? My own feelings?" I jerk my arm free. "You don't get to decide what I can handle."

"Don't I?" He steps closer, crowding me against the wall. "You were fifteen, baby girl. A scared kid who watched her best friend die. You think I was going to dump that on you?"

"Yes! Because it's my life, my trauma, my choice!" The words come out louder than I intended, and I can see Logan watching us from across the room with wide eyes.

Colt's jaw tightens. "You're being dramatic."

"And you're being a coward."

The words hang between us, sharp and cutting. His eyes flash with something dangerous, and for a moment I think he might pin me to the wall and kiss me until I can't breathe.

"Tell me, Colt. When you look at me, what do you see? Do you see the woman you love, or do you see your failure?"

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Just stares at me with those pale blue eyes full of pain and want and terrible, crushing guilt.

"I see both," he admits finally.

"Then maybe you're just trying to make up for your guilt by being with me." The words come out cruel, designed to hurt. "Maybe this whole thing is just you trying to ease your conscience."

His face goes white. "That's not—"

"Isn't it? The perfect way to make yourself feel better. Save the girl, fuck the girl, live happily ever after?" I'm being unfair, and I know it, but I can't seem to stop. "Very convenient."

"Emery, don't—"

"I need to think." I push past him toward the door. "I need to figure out if any of this was real."

I'm already out the door, half-running down Main Street with tears streaming down my face. Behind me, I can hear heavy footsteps and Colt's voice calling my name, but I don't stop.

"Emery! Stop running from me! Jesus Christ you’re fast." Footfalls land hard and fast behind me. “I have a butt injury here. You want me to re-open my wound?”

He’s joking but it stops me. Because that’s exactly what he and I don’t want to do. I slow my pace, my breathing fast and unsteady, not ready to turn around but comforted that his footsteps are matching mine.

“Turn around.” His voice is stern. “Babygirl—”

“No, you don’t get to Babygirl me right now, Colt Boone.” I keep walking, but don’t quicken my pace.

“Little brat.” Strong arms wrap around my waist from behind, lifting me clean off my feet. "Gotcha," he growls in my ear.

"Put me down!" I struggle against his hold, but he's already carrying me toward the small park at the end of the block.

"Not happening, baby girl. We're finishing this."

He carries me behind a cluster of oak trees that shield us from the street, then pins me back against the largest trunk. His hands bracket my head, his body caging me in.

"You done running?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Maybe I'm just getting started."

"Like hell." His thigh pushes between my legs, pressing against me through my thin leggings. "You want to know if this is real? Let me show you how real it is."

"Colt—"

"You call me Daddy." His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry and desperate and claiming. When I try to turn my head away, his hand fists in my hair, holding me still. “You remember my name, little girl, or I’ll have to remind you.”

“Daddy,” I whisper.

"You think this is guilt?" he pants against my lips, his thigh rocking against me. "You think I could fake this?"

I can feel how hard he is through his pants, can feel the way his whole body is trembling with need and barely controlled emotion.

"I think—" I start, but then his hand slides between us, cupping me through my leggings.

"You think too much," he growls, his fingers finding my clit through the fabric. "Feel instead."

I try to fight it, try to pull away. “Colt, what happened…”

“None of what I have with you is about guilt. You get that thought out of your head right now. Do I feel guilty? Yes, but that’s my burden to bear, baby girl.”

I shake my head, even as his finger traces my lips, flicks my clit, starts to make sparks fly through my body.

I’m so wet already, so ready for him, but he needs to know the truth.

“Jenna did what she did, and maybe it was right and maybe it was wrong, but it’s not on you.

That guilt you’re carrying is unfair. You said you wanted me to trust you before you and I do.

But, you have to trust me too. I get the Daddy thing, I really do, and trust me, I love it.

But we are still two equals. Trust one-hundred-percent is a two-way street if we are doing this. ”

“Is it?”

“Yes it is!” My knees are trembling, but I’m determined to get the truth out. “You want to take care of me, and I want that too, but sometimes Daddy you’re going to have to let your babygirl take care of you too. And this is one of those times.”

When he starts that maddening circular pressure, I forget how to form words. But I see something in his eyes. Something like an easing of the pain, something like a pressure being released.

"That's it," he murmurs, watching my face as I fall apart. "Let go for Daddy. Show me how real this is."

The orgasm hits me like lightning, making me cry out and cling to his shoulders. He works me through it, his mouth swallowing my gasps and moans.

When I finally come down, we're both breathing hard.

"Still think this is about guilt?" he asks, then gets that stupid sexy, cocky smile. “If I make you come every time I have a guilty feeling, is that okay? Because, I feel guilty every day when I eat one of Mrs. Sherman’s cupcakes.”

I look up into those pale blue eyes and see love.

"You're an idiot," I whisper.

"Yeah," he agrees, pressing his forehead against mine. "I am. But I'm your idiot."

"Damn right, you are." I cup his face in my hands. "And you're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Good," he says, kissing me again. "Because I'm never letting you go."