Steele’s Redemption

Chapter 8

Jake

She didn't make a sound for a long time.

Just her shoulder against mine, her breathing uneven, the occasional shudder working through her small frame while she let herself come apart. I didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't reach for her or pat her back or do any of the things that would have been about making myself feel less useless.

I just stayed.

My jaw ached from how hard I was holding it shut.

Derek Blackwell had put his hands on her. Had used her marriage like a weapon—like ownership was a right he'd purchased with a ring. And she had fought him. She'd said that clearly, her voice cracking down the middle of the words: *I tried to stop him.* That detail sat inside my chest like a coal, hot and steady, and I pressed it down because this moment was not mine to turn into rage.

It was hers.

When her breathing evened out, I said, "Water. Can I get you water?"

She let out a sound that was almost a laugh. "Sure."

I got up slowly, went to the kitchen, filled a glass, and gave her the time it took to pull myself together. Three deep breaths. The view from the kitchen window—city lights, indifferent and steady—reminded me that the world outside was still turning and Derek was still in it, somewhere. That fact needed to be dealt with. Just not tonight.

I brought her the glass and sat back down, leaving a foot of space between us this time.

"Thank you," she said, both hands wrapped around it.

"I want to ask you something," I said, "and I need you to answer honestly, not the way you think I want to hear it."

She looked at me sideways.

"What do you need right now? Tonight, tomorrow, this week. Not what you think is reasonable to ask for. What you actually need."

She was quiet long enough that I thought she might not answer. Then: "I need to know what's happening inside my body. I need facts. And I need to make my own decisions about what comes next." She paused. "I'm tired of men making decisions for me."

"Okay." I nodded. "Then tomorrow morning, if you want, I can call Dr. Chen. She runs a private clinic, discreet—no front desk gossip, no insurance trail. She can confirm the pregnancy, check your health, walk you through every option you have. And if you decide you want your account of what Derek did recorded anywhere—your words, on file—she can do that too." I kept my voice level. "Not evidence. We both know that window's gone. Just documentation. In case you want it later, for whatever reason. That's your call entirely."

Emma stared at the glass in her hands. "Every option?"

"Every option," I said. "Whatever you decide, I'll make sure you have access to it."

She was quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet—thinking, not shutting down.

"Call her," she said. "For tomorrow."

I pulled out my phone and stepped to the far end of the room, keeping my voice low. Lisa picked up on the third ring, asked no unnecessary questions, and gave me a 9 a.m. slot. I came back and told Emma.

"Okay," she said. Just that.

---

Around midnight, she stood up, rinsed her glass in the sink, and stood at the kitchen counter with her back to me. I could see the tension in her shoulders—not fear, exactly. Something more like a decision working itself out.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, not turning around.

"Yeah."

"Why are you being so careful with me?" She turned then. Her eyes were dry now, red-rimmed but steady. "Most men in your position would have—" She stopped. Started again. "You have all the leverage here. You know that, right? You pulled me off the street. You gave me a job. I'm sleeping in your apartment. And you haven't once—" She shook her head. "Why?"

I thought about a few different answers. None of them were the easy ones.

"Because you trusted me," I said finally. "After everything you've been through, that's not a small thing. And I'm not going to be another man who takes more than he was given."

She studied me the way she studied invoices—carefully, looking for the error. "But you're drawn to me. I'm not blind."

"No," I said. "I'm not going to lie about that. But what I want doesn't matter more than what you need. They're not the same thing right now, and I know the difference."

Something shifted in her face. Not relief exactly. Something quieter.

"That might be the most honest thing anyone's said to me in years," she said.

I didn't answer, because there wasn't anything to add to that.

---

She moved toward the hallway a few minutes later, stopping at the guest room door. "Jake."

"Yeah."

"I don't want to be alone. Not—" She caught herself. "Not in the room with me. I know that's—"

"I'll be on the couch," I said. "Door stays open. You say the word and I'm right there."

The tension in her shoulders dropped a full inch. "Okay."

She went into the guest room, and I heard the lock—not the deadbolt, just the interior latch—click softly into place. Not keeping me out so much as keeping herself anchored.

I settled on the couch, forearms on my knees, and looked at the city through the glass.

The anger was still there. It wasn't going anywhere. Derek Blackwell had spent years learning exactly how to take from Emma—her confidence, her money, her safety, finally her body—and had done it all behind a closed door with a wedding ring on his hand, certain that was enough cover to make it legal.

It wasn't going to be enough cover for much longer.

But I wasn't going to make that promise out loud. Not to Emma, not tonight. She didn't need my rage or my plans or my assurances that I could handle it. She'd had enough of men deciding what she needed.

What she needed right now was for the door to stay open and for me to still be there in the morning.

So that's what I'd be.

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and listened to the quiet of the apartment—steady and unbroken—and made the only promise that mattered.

*He doesn't get to reach her again. Not while I'm breathing.*

I kept that one for myself.