Chapter 149
Emily's POV
The drive back to the apartment passed in a blur. I kept trying to plan what I'd say, how I'd explain the bruises, but every scenario I ran through in my head felt impossible. I couldn't tell them the truth. If I told them the truth, they'd want to call the police. And if I called the police, my father would go after my mother.
And I couldn't let that happen.
I'll figure it out, I told myself as I pulled into the parking garage. I'll come up with something. I'll tell them I tripped. I'll tell them I got mugged but it's fine, I'm fine, everything's fine.
But when I looked at myself in the rearview mirror one more time, I knew there was no way they were going to believe me.
I sat there for another minute, trying to steady my breathing, trying to find some kind of calm to hold onto. Then I grabbed my bag, got out of the car, and headed toward the elevator.
My legs felt like they were made of something unstable—water, maybe, or sand—and I had to concentrate on each step to make sure I didn't fall. The elevator ride up to the fourth floor felt both too fast and too slow, and by the time the doors opened I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it hurt.
Just get inside. Just get through the door. You can fall apart later.
I unlocked the apartment door and pushed it open, and the smell hit me first—something rich and savory, garlic and herbs and warmth. Mason's cooking. The sound of voices drifted from the living room, low and comfortable, and I heard Ethan laugh at something.
They were all here. All waiting for me.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me, and the sound must've carried because the conversation stopped.
"Emily?" Ethan's voice, bright and happy. "That you?"
I opened my mouth to answer, to say something normal and light and reassuring, but no sound came out.
And then Ethan appeared in the hallway, his face lighting up when he saw me, and I watched the exact moment his expression changed. Watched the smile fall away and the concern flood in as his eyes tracked over my face, my split lip, the bruise already blooming across my cheek.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed, and then he was moving, crossing the space between us in two long strides. "Emily, what happened? Are you okay? Did someone—"
His hands came up to cup my face, gentle and careful, and that was it. That was the thing that broke me.
I felt my face crumple, felt the sob tear its way out of my chest, and then I was crying—really crying, the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep and raw and completely beyond my control.
"I'm sorry," I gasped out, but the words dissolved into another sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—"
"Hey, hey, no," Ethan said, his voice going soft and urgent. "Don't apologize. You're okay. I've got you."
His arms came around me and I collapsed into him, my legs finally giving out, and he caught me easily, holding me up while I fell apart against his chest. I heard footsteps behind him—Alex and Mason, coming to see what was wrong—and then there were more hands on me, more voices asking questions I couldn't answer.
"What the fuck happened?" Alex's voice, sharp and furious in a way that would've scared me if I had any room left for fear.
"I don't know," Ethan said, and I could hear the strain in his voice as he held me tighter. "Emily, sweetheart, you have to tell us what happened. Did someone hurt you? Are you—"
I shook my head frantically, but I couldn't get any words out. Couldn't do anything but sob and shake and cling to Ethan like he was the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.
"Let's get her to the couch," Mason said, his voice quieter but just as worried. "Come on, let's sit down."
Ethan half-carried me into the living room and lowered me onto the couch, and immediately Mason was there with a glass of water and Alex was crouching in front of me, his hands on my knees, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
"Emily," he said, and his voice was controlled in that way that meant he was barely holding it together. "I need you to breathe. Can you do that? Just breathe."
I tried. I really tried. But every breath hitched and broke and turned into another sob, and I couldn't stop, couldn't pull myself back from the edge I'd gone over.
Ethan's arm was around my shoulders, holding me close, and Mason sat down on my other side, his hand finding mine and squeezing tight. Alex stayed where he was, kneeling in front of me, his jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping.
"Who did this?" Alex said, and there was something dangerous in his voice now, something that promised violence. "Tell me who did this to you."
I shook my head again, harder this time, and the movement made my bruised cheek throb. "I can't—" The words came out broken and wet. "I can't tell you. I can't—"
"Yes, you can," Ethan said gently, his hand coming up to stroke my hair. "Whatever it is, we can handle it. We'll figure it out. But you have to tell us."
"You don't understand," I sobbed, pressing my free hand over my mouth to try and muffle the sound. "You don't—if I tell you, he'll—"
"He?" Alex cut in, his voice going deadly quiet. "Who's he, Emily?"
I couldn't say it. Couldn't force the words past the knot in my throat. Because saying it out loud would make it real, would make it something they'd want to fix, and I couldn't let them get involved. Couldn't let them put themselves in danger.
Couldn't let them know how completely and utterly I'd failed to escape.
"Please," I whispered, looking at Alex through my tears. "Please don't make me say it. Please just—"
"Okay," Mason said suddenly, his voice cutting through the rising panic. "Okay, it's okay. You don't have to tell us right now. It's okay."
He pulled me toward him and I went, turning away from Ethan and burying my face in Mason's shoulder while he wrapped his arms around me and held on. His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, and I felt him press his face into my hair.
"You're safe," he murmured, and his voice was shaking. "You're safe now. We've got you."
But I wasn't safe. None of us were safe. Because my father was out there, and he knew where I lived, and he wasn't going to stop until he'd taken everything from me.
And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—I could do to stop him.