Chapter 471: Night Raid

Chapter 471: Night Raid

Fiona took her coat, her gaze lingering on Emily's face for a second. "Ms. Natasha, would you like dinner?"

"No."

Emily headed toward the stairs, her steps slightly unsteady. Ten hours of sleep hadn't restored her energy—instead, it had only made the bone-deep exhaustion more vivid.

She needed her medication, then sleep, then to pull herself together into something resembling "just tired" before Charles came for her.

Fiona didn't press further, and Emily climbed the stairs alone, her silhouette appearing somewhat fragile in Fiona's view.

 

The pills were capsules, gray-blue, unmarked. Emily tipped one into her palm and swallowed it with lukewarm water. The woman in the mirror was pale, the shadows under her eyes stark in the lamplight. She remembered Charles's words—like someone dug out of a grave.

She slid into bed, pulling the covers to her chin. The manor's soundproofing was excellent; outside, only the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore could be heard. She closed her eyes, consciousness gradually sinking.

Then she heard something.

Faint. Like something scraping against the window frame. Emily's eyes snapped open, her fingers already finding the knife under her pillow—habit, even in the safest places.

But before danger arrived, Fiona's voice crackled through the bedside comm unit. "Intruder. West wing, second floor window. Identity confirmed: Charles. Permission to engage?"

Emily froze for a second, then laughed softly.

She tucked the knife back under the pillow and settled into bed again, that faint smile still on her lips. "Let him in. Then you can go to bed, Fiona. No watch duty tonight."

"Understood."

The sound of the window opening was soft, as if the night breeze itself had drawn back the curtain. Emily kept her eyes closed, listening to footsteps move from the window to the foot of the bed, then to her side. She felt the mattress dip slightly, felt the chill of outdoors wash over her.

She spoke without opening her eyes. "Charles. You must look ridiculous scaling walls."

"I climbed the drainpipe, actually. Learned it at training camp as a kid—basic skillset." His voice carried amusement and a hint of triumphant satisfaction.

"What does Mr. Windsor need that skillset for?"

"For this moment."

The covers lifted at one corner, cold air beginning to seep in—then immediately blocked by a body running fever-hot. Charles moved fast, as if afraid she'd refuse, diving straight under the blanket and wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her bodily against him.

Emily's body went rigid.

"You—"

His chin pressed against the crown of her head, his voice muffled. "I changed my mind. Respecting your choices was driving me insane. So I'm choosing not to respect them."

Emily tried to push him away, but her fingers met the fabric of his shirt... damp. She paused, realizing it was night dew, or perhaps water from the drainpipe. How long had he waited outside? How long had he climbed?

"You're insane. This is Hell's Angels headquarters—Fiona could shoot you dead."

Charles's palm pressed against the small of her back, heat seeping through her thin nightshirt. "She won't. Because you won't."

Emily said nothing.

This man was too clever.

"Why didn't you ask me to stay this afternoon?" she asked, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Charles's arm tightened around her.

"Because you were trembling. If I'd asked you to stay, you would've forced yourself to prove you were fine. You would've had dinner with me, talked with me, done everything to convince me you were okay."

His fingers found her right hand in the darkness, intertwining with hers.

"But you needed rest. Real rest—not performing 'I'm fine' for my benefit."

Emily felt her eyes prickle with tears.

"Then why are you here now?"

His lips brushed her ear, his voice dropping to something like a forbidden secret. "Because I've been counting every minute. From when you left to when I climbed through this window. Every single minute, I've been thinking about what you're doing, whether you've taken your medication, whether you're sleeping, whether you're—" He paused. "—thinking of me."

Emily turned in his arms, facing him in the darkness. Her eyes had adjusted enough to make out his silhouette, to see that familiar light in his gaze that made her pulse quicken.

"Charles."

"Mm?"

"I wasn't thinking of you. I fell asleep the moment I got back." A lie.

He laughed—that deep, chest-rumbling laugh she remembered from the hospital room. His forehead pressed against hers, breath mingling, lips still carrying the outdoor chill as they grazed her nose.

"That's fine. It's enough that I was thinking of you."

Emily wanted to argue, to push him away, to tell him this was Hell's Angels territory and he couldn't just do as he pleased. But his hand had already found the small of her back, pressing her toward him with an intensity she couldn't refuse. His kiss descended, carrying the coolness of night air and something burning with stubborn need, swallowing every word she might have said.

Outside, the lake water lapped against the shore. In the distance, Fiona's silhouette paused in the hallway shadows for a second, then silently withdrew.

And Emily, in Charles's arms, finally allowed herself to sink. Not into the bottomless trench, but into a warmth she couldn't help craving.

 

Morning arrived with urgent knocking at the door.

Emily opened her eyes, consciousness still submerged in last night's haze—Charles's warmth, his heartbeat, that kiss he'd left on the crown of her head. The sensations were so vivid that she instinctively reached to her side, only to find cold sheets.

He was already gone.

Fiona's voice came through the door. "Ms. Natasha. You have visitors. From up north—they say they're with the Campbell family."