Chapter 333: "I want to come with you."

"What?"

"Promise me that if I ever need you—

really

need you—you’ll come. No matter where you are. No matter what empire is burning. No matter what," she insisted, her fingers digging into my bicep like anchors. "Promise me you’ll come."

That desperation—raw and jagged—clawed at my throat. This wasn’t about walls or distance. This was about faith. About knowing the hands that’d saved her once would rip through hell itself to do it again.

"I promise," I vowed, no hesitation. No room for doubt. "Emma, I will always come. Always. You could call me from the corpse of a fallen god and I’d tear my way back to you."

"What if you’re busy saving Charlotte’s company? Whatever that means?"

"Then let Charlotte’s empire burn, first until I make sure you’re fine," I snarled, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair— escaping its bun—behind her ear. The touch was gentle, but my voice was a battlefield command. "Family comes first. Always. Blood Before Business."

Relief slammed into her—so powerful it made her gasp.

Her arms shot around my neck, crushing her face into my shoulder as the dam finally burst. She sobbed against me, whole body shaking with the force of weeks of terror finally tearing free.

"I’m sorry," she wept into my shoulder, the words mangled by grief. "I’m sorry about what I said at dinner. About Madison and... you know what. I was scared and I wanted to hurt you before you could hurt me."

"I know," I murmured, wrapping my arms around her—arms that had broken bones, now built solely to hold her together. "Emma, I know exactly why you said it. And it’s okay."

"It’s not okay," she hiccuped, tears soaking into my shirt. "It was mean and inappropriate and—"

"—and it was your claws catching survival," I finished for her, rubbing her back as her body shuddered. "I’ve done the same, you know."

"Really? I do not believe that. When?"

"Every time I thought Mom would get tired of my chaos and toss me back into the government system." I rested my chin on the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo, her tears, her fear. "Easier to be the bad kid who gets thrown away than the good kid who just gets... abandoned."

She pulled back, her face streaked with tears like battle-scars. "You really thought Mom would send you away?"

"For a while, yeah." My voice scraped against old scars. "Until I realized she’s not retreating. No matter how much of an asshole I am."

Emma laughed wetly, the sound like shattering glass. "Yeah. You are kind of an asshole sometimes."

"Thanks. Real supportive."

"Just being honest." She scrubbed at her eyes with the hoodie’s sleeve—a fist against ruin. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you stay tonight?" Her voice fractured—small, desperate, a plea carved from bone dust. "Just tonight?"

That request hit like a hammer to the sternum. She needed reassurance. Needed proof the ground hadn’t vanished beneath her feet. That I was still here. Still the wall between her and Trent’s ghost. For one more goddamn night.

"Of course," I vowed, the words iron bars slamming shut around her.

She smiled—the first real smile since I’d crossed her threshold. Then scooted over, offering sanctuary on the ruined landscape of her bed. I kicked off my shoes and lay beside her, and she curled against my side like a kid clutching a live grenade, seeking the detonator she knew wouldn’t blow.

"Better?" I adjusted, my body becoming the rampart she needed.

"Much better." She burrowed deeper, her head finding home in the hollow of my shoulder. "Peter?"

"Mm?"

"I think I want to come with you." Her voice cut through the silence—sudden, sharp. "To your new place."

Joke flashed through my mind. Then I met her gaze. Dead serious.

"Emma—"

"I know," she rushed ahead, words tripping landmines. "You need your space for your wars and your secrets and your adult bullshit. But maybe—maybe I could have my own bunker? I swear I wouldn’t breach the perimeter. I’d be the quietest ghost who ever loaded a dishwasher. Who never touched your contraband."

Hope bled in her voice—thick, coppery, heartbreaking. Seventeen years old and willing to trade her independence for a patch of ground near the person who made her feel bulletproof.

"We’ll talk about it," I soothed, careful not to spook her. "But Emma? You don’t have to follow me into the fire. I’m not vanishing where you can’t touch me."

"I know," she whispered, eyes fixed on mine like a lifeline. "But maybe... maybe for little while? Until I remember how to breathe alone?"

I heard the real translation: Until Trent’s shadow faded. Until her lungs stopped seizing in silence. Until she trusted my hands would catch her if she fell.

"We’ll map it out," I promised, my voice a contract. "Whatever you need to rebuild yourself—we’ll build it."

She made a soft, shattered sound and dug deeper into my arms, carving her place beside my ribs. "I love you, Peter. Real love. Even when you’re being an insufferable rich bastard."

"Love you too, Emma. Even when you’re a goddamn thorn in my side."

She laughed quietly, and I felt the last of the terror unclench from her spine. The fear still lingered—a cold current beneath the warmth—but it was caged now. Contained by the certainty that I’d always be the goddamn wall.

As she drifted toward sleep in my arms, breath steadying against my neck, I understood the primal calculus behind my conquests:

Not for the power.

Not for the money.

Not for the bodies.

For this.

The privilege of being someone’s sanctuary in a world that specialized in genocide of the soul.

Emma was right. She’d probably shadow me to the new fortress, at least for while. And maybe that’s the tax paid by kings: Some responsibilities couldn’t be outsourced.

Like ensuring the traumatized girl never tasted the gall of abandonment again.

Yeah. I could carry that weight. Happily.