Chapter 51 A misunderstanding
EMILY
Mastering a lethal weapon gives a person a very specific kind of confidence. It makes you want to prove you are no longer the weakest person in the room.
I want as Alistair walks into the master suite, his broad shoulders carrying the exhaustion of a long day at the corporate tower. He strips off his dark silk tie, tossing it onto the velvet bench at the foot of the bed.
I wonder what happened to make him so cold to me earlier. He still hasn’t looked at me since his cold statement earlier. His mind is clearly a million miles away, lost in board meetings and political maneuvering. But I think it’s more than that. Something must have happened to make him like this.
I decide to bring his attention right back to the present or at least to me. There is only one thing I can think of to get his attention and instead of thinking it through, I immediately jump into action.
I step in front of his path, blocking his way to the dressing room.
"Emily," he starts.
Before he can ask what I am doing, I reach over to the heavy oak bedside table.
"I want to show you something."
My fingers close around the matte black pistol resting near his lamp. It is an older model, distinct from the Nightblade Leo I was handed in the cellar this morning, but the mechanics are virtually identical.
The metal is freezing against my skin. I do not hesitate. My raw thumbs find the release catch instantly.
I press the lever, driving the heavy slide back with the heel of my palm. The steel components separate with a sharp clacking sound.
I pull the barrel free, remove the tightly coiled guide rod, and lay the five core pieces out in a perfect, neat line on the silk duvet.
I know he’s watching and the need to show off what I’ve learned only increases by the second.
I do not stop to admire the work. I reverse the process immediately. The barrel drops into place. The spring compresses under my thumb. The upper receiver slides onto the lower frame, locking tight with a loud, metallic snap that rings through the quiet bedroom.
I hold the fully assembled weapon flat on my palms, presenting it to him like a trophy. I look up, a proud smile stretching across my face.
"Forty-five seconds," I say with a small smile spreading across my face. "I practiced the whole day till I was finally able to do it within forty-five seconds," I add, waiting for the nod of approval I earned.
Alistair does not nod. He does not smile.
The air in the room drops ten degrees in a single second. All the color drains from his face, leaving a terrifying, pale mask of absolute fury. The muscles in his jaw bulge so hard they look like carved stone. His dark eyes lock onto the weapon in my hands with a violence that makes my breath stop entirely.
He lunges forward, his massive hand snatching the pistol from my palms with brutal force.
"Never touch this," Alistair says. His voice is a quiet, lethal growl that vibrates right through the floorboards. "If you lay a single finger on this weapon again, I will make sure you never touch a gun again."
I freeze. What...what just happened? The harsh threat hangs in the space between us, sharp and entirely serious. This is definitely not the reaction I was expecting from him. I thought he’d be happy about my progress. But that’s clearly not the case.
Alistair turns his back on me. He marches into the adjoining dressing room, his heavy boots hitting the hardwood with aggressive force. He grabs the edge of the thick oak door and pulls it shut behind him.
The slam is deafening. The noise shakes the entire wall, rattling the glass of the bedside lamps.
I stand alone in the center of the bedroom, my hands still hovering awkwardly in the air. My proud, cheerful mood evaporates, replaced by a thick cloud of pure confusion. I stare at the closed door.
The reaction makes absolutely no logical sense.
Yesterday, he specifically approved my firearms training. He ordered Leo to take me down to the armory. He knew I spent the entire morning stripping the Nightblade apart. My mind works fast as I try to access the whole situation and figure out what went wrong.
Then it hits me.
Touching a gun is not the problem.
Touching *that* specific gun is the problem.
I lower my hands, rubbing my sore thumbs. The pieces continue to fall into place. Alistair Wolfe is a man who buys brand-new security equipment every week. He’s not the kind of person who will keep
keep an older, worn pistol on his nightstand for practical defense. He must have kept it there because it means something to him. It is a relic. My attempt to show off just trampled all over a very private piece of his history.
I walk over to the small armchair near the window and sit down. I pull my knees up, wrapping my arms around my legs. I will wait right here until the water stops running. We are going to talk about this.
ALISTAIR
The scalding water of the shower beats down on my neck, but it does nothing to wash away the chaotic tension winding tight in my chest.
I rest my palms against the wet tile wall, bowing my head under the heavy spray. Warren’s voice echoes repeatedly in the back of my mind. His questions at the restaurant dug right into the deepest, most heavily guarded corner of my life. *Have you ever thought you might never find her again?*
The panic from that conversation followed me all the way home. It sat in the passenger seat of my car. It walked up the stairs with me. And the absolute second I saw Emily’s hands breaking apart that specific black pistol, the pressure finally erupted.
The anger was entirely misdirected and I know that.
That weapon is the only physical connection I have left to the woman from my past. It is a sacred object to me. Seeing another woman handle it, treating it like a simple mechanical puzzle to be solved, triggered a blind, protective rage.
Especially if that other woman is my wife.
I turn the brass handle, shutting off the water. The sudden silence in the bathroom feels like it’s pressing in on me and forcing me to realize what I just did wrong.
I grab a thick white towel, drying my hair roughly before pulling on a dark gray bathrobe. I tie the belt around my waist and push the door open, fully expecting the bedroom to be empty.
Emily is sitting in the armchair near the window.
She does not look frightened. She sits perfectly straight, her dark eyes fixed on my face the moment I cross the threshold. Even after seeing that side of me, she doesn’t seem fazed or scared. She does not cower, and she does not hide under the blankets.
"Stop," Emily says, holding up a single hand as I walk toward the bed. "Why did you lose your temper like that?"
I stop in the middle of the room. The directness of her question catches me slightly off guard. Most people in this estate, or most people that I know, avoid my anger like a plague. They lower their eyes and run the other way. Emily is doing the exact opposite of what others would do. She is demanding an explanation.
I look at the bedside table where I placed the gun.
"Emily."
"I’m your wife. Our marriage might be a contract but it’s still a valid marriage. Therefore, I deserve an explanation as to why you blew up at me like that."
I take a deep breath. "That weapon has a very specific, special significance to me," I say, keeping my tone steady. "It is not a training tool."
Emily studies my face. Her sharp intellect processes the information instantly. I watch her eyes soften as she reads the quiet grief hiding behind my explanation. She connects the dots without needing me to spell them out. I can see from her eyes that she knows the significance is tied to a person, and she might even know that the person is a woman I care deeply about.
She takes a slow breath, suppressing her natural curiosity. She does not ask for a name. She does not demand the history.
"I apologize," Emily says, her voice sincere and quiet. "I did not know it belonged to someone important. I was just trying to show you what Leo taught me. I promise I will never touch it again."
Her straightforward personality is a rare, refreshing trait. She does not play the victim, nor does she try to manipulate the situation. She acknowledges the boundary and respects it. The tight knot of defensive anger in my chest finally loosens.
"I appreciate that," I say, running a hand through my damp hair. "And I apologize for my reaction. The threat was entirely uncalled for. I overreacted."
A beat of silence passes between us. The tension in the room finally dissolves.
Emily tilts her head, a small, playful spark returning to her dark eyes. "So, we both made a mistake. Are we even now?"
I let out a short, quiet breath that is almost a laugh. "We are even."
"Good," she says, leaning forward in the chair. "Then tell me the truth. Look past the fact that I used the wrong prop. How was my assembly time?"
I cross my arms over my chest, considering her request. The image of her hands moving with absolute, mechanical precision replays in my mind. She stripped and rebuilt a complex piece of machinery in under a minute on her very first day of training. It is a remarkable achievement.
"Not bad," I say, giving her a fair, honest evaluation.
A massive, glowing smile breaks across her face. Her eyes shine with genuine, unfiltered happiness. She looks incredibly proud.
"I really value your approval, Alistair," she says, her voice soft and warm.
I stare at her. The bright, burning gaze in her eyes is entirely too warm. It is the look of a woman who is starting to seek validation from a man, not just a business partner. The air in the room suddenly feels dangerous again, but for a completely different reason.
I pull my arms down, my posture stiffening as I take a deliberate step back. I need to establish the boundary right now, before this contractual arrangement becomes complicated.
"Emily," I say, a sharp frown pulling at my brow. "Do not let your head get confused. We have an agreement. Do not develop any inappropriate feelings for me."
Her smile falters slightly, but she does not look away.
"I already have someone I like," I tell her, making sure the words land with absolute clarity. "Keep your focus on your goals."