It feels like a crush.
It’s bullshit, honestly. A crush on a man like Emerson. I’m still horrified that he’s keeping me here. I’m like a canvas with a dark stripe of paint down the middle. On one side, sunlight through the water. Looking up through waves. On the other, a roiling storm. The water beats against that line. All the emotions coming together.
Or I’m just losing it.
Emerson’s not in his bedroom. I go back across to mine and try the door. It’s unlocked. My fingers skim the collar of my shirt. He meant it, then. He’s not actually going to cage me in here.
Just the house.
Which is not better, even though the house is large and beautiful. Is it wrong to get scraps of peace from the little things?
Probably.
I wander down the stairs with my heart in my throat. I don’t want to trip or fall or embarrass myself. A pretty strange fear, given that I’m a prisoner.
On the main floor I find a wide entryway with a dining room on one side and an office on the other. The hall with the stairs leads back into a high-ceilinged living room, but there are other doors, other hallways. I poke my head through one of them. A den. I don’t have the courage to open any of the closed doors. Another hall takes me toward the back of the house. To a big, light-soaked kitchen.
That’s where I find Emerson.
He stands at the stove, cooking something in a frying pan. Eggs. He’s whisking them with a fork. For a moment, he looks far away. His mind is definitely not on the eggs. Toast pops up. Without taking his eyes off the frying pan, he reaches over and grabs it with his fingertips. One piece, then two. Onto a plate. He only abandons the eggs to add pats of butter to the toast. Quickly, like there’s a time limit.
“Do you always make toast like that?” I blurt the question in spite of myself. I shouldn’t care, not at all, how Emerson makes toast and eggs. I should care more that a little of the bite mark I left on his skin last night is visible at his collar.
His expression brightens. “Hello, little painter.”
“Do you?” I take a few steps into the kitchen. He’s scrambling the eggs. That’s how I like them. But we’ve never talked about it. There has never been a relevant time to discuss my egg preferences.
He finishes with the eggs. They go onto the plate, on top of the first slice of toast. He adds a sprinkle of salt, then takes the knife and smooths the melting butter over the second slice. When he’s got the scrambled-egg sandwich together, he cuts it on the diagonal and picks up the plate.
“Emerson.”
“Is there a better way to have toast?”
“You took it out of the toaster when it was too hot.” He arches an eyebrow. “I hate when little pieces of butter refuse to melt. That’s how I make toast. Were you watching me twenty-four hours a day? Everything I did?”
A flash of surprise. “No, little painter. I didn’t.”
“How did you know about the eggs, then?” My plan to observe him from a cool distance is off the rails two minutes in. “Did you ask my friends? Did you get to my family?”
His confusion sharpens into his usual focus. It’s like I’ve been standing in the dark and he’s turned on a spotlight. I’m too hot in this sweater. This is too far. This is way too far.
“Did I know what about the eggs?”
“That I like them scrambled.” I fold both arms over my stomach and force myself not to scream. “Just tell me. Did you have cameras in my apartment? Did I have any—any—” Emerson puts the plate down with a click and comes over to me with long, elegant strides. He braces both my shoulders with his palms. “Did I have any privacy at all?”
That was a guarantee in Leo’s house. Jesus, I was foolish. I spent all that time being pissed off at Leo, and I had everything. He refuses to have those kinds of cameras in his house. I’m dizzy. Sick at the possibilities.
“Daphne.” Emerson’s steady. It would feel good to lean against him, but I don’t. “They’re not for you.”
“My family?”
“The eggs and toast.”
The dizziness pulls back. “They’re not?”
“No. I was going to ask you what you wanted when you came down.” His phone buzzes in his pocket. Emerson keeps one hand on my shoulder and reaches for the phone with the other. Glances at the screen. “Wait here.”
No way. I follow him through the house to the front door. Emerson flips the lock and pulls it open.
“I distinctly remember telling you I didn’t want you here, Sin.”
“Love you too, prick.” A man sidesteps Emerson and comes into the house. It’s one of his brothers. He has Emerson’s eyes, but not Emerson’s light hair. Sin. That’s what Emerson called him. “Look. If—”
“You have to help me.” I’m much louder than I meant to be. Mortifying. “He’s keeping me here, and he won’t let me go. Please. Just help me get out.”
Sin turns his head, startled. His gaze isn’t razor-sharp, like Emerson’s. A faint wrinkle in his brow suggests mild concern. Not a great start. I hold my breath. Maybe he’ll punch Emerson. Or tackle him to the ground. I don’t have shoes on but I’ll still run.
I brace for a hit, my adrenaline kicking in. The door is open. I’d have a shot if Sin distracted Emerson for a few minutes.
Emerson’s brother lets out a sigh, a hand coming up to rub at his forehead. “What the fuck, Emerson?”
“Again. You were under no obligation to come here.”
“Oh, fuck off. You’re not going to call me in the middle of one of your—”
“Sinclair.” The warning in Emerson’s tone makes the hair on my neck stand up.
“I left you alone for a week, and this happens?” Sin shakes his head, then reaches over and pushes the door shut behind him. He flips the lock like it’s his house and not Emerson’s. “You have to tell me when it’s getting this bad, Em. Or—I don’t know. Any fucking human being.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit.”
“If I wanted you here, I’d have texted you. Or called.” Emerson takes out his phone, taps something on the screen, and puts it away again. “But since you’ve already—”
“We’re talking about this, jackass. Is she serious?”
“You could ask me instead of him,” I point out, my voice trembling. “And I am serious.”
Sinclair narrows his eyes at Emerson.
Emerson looks flatly back at him.
“Emerson. For the love of Christ.”
“Jesus had very little to do with it.” Emerson’s casual about this, to my horror. “You have nothing to do with it either, and since—”
“Since what? Since you’ve got a captive living in your house? You’re sloppy about it, too. She’s just down here in the foyer, asking people for help. I could have been a delivery guy. You’re going to get yourself arrested, and then what are you going to do?”
Emerson wraps his fist around the front of Sin’s coat. “Since you’ve already barged in.” Sin rolls his eyes. “Do you want any eggs? It would be rude not to offer, even though you’re trespassing.”