Page 52 of Emmy's Ride

Then she kissed me. The first time she’d initiated a connection. It felt like acceptance, a declaration of understanding.

My hands slid around her waist, pulling her against me. My grip was firm, possessive, but not demanding. I let her set the pace. I let her tell me, without words, what this meant.

When she finally pulled back, her breath mixing with mine, I rested my forehead against hers.

“You don’t have to thank me for that, Emmy,” I murmured.

She did, though. I could see it in her eyes.

And for the first time since she walked back into my life, I felt like maybe—just maybe—she was starting to trust me again.

Later that night, I pulled Jax aside. “Find out where Noah lives. He’s one of Emmy’s patients. Try not to go too dark to find out, okay? Nothing that could fall back on Emmy.”

He raised a brow but didn’t question it. “On it.”

It didn’t take long. The kid lived in a rundown part of town, the kind of neighborhood where no one looked too hard at bruises.

I had that niggling feeling on the back of my neck. “Run a background check on the father.”

Jax cracked his neck, muttering under his breath as he typed. “Alright, let’s see what kind of skeletons this bastard’s got in his closet.”

The screen flickered, and within seconds, a file appeared with a list of priors that made my stomach tighten.

“Jesus.” Jax let out a long whistle. “This guy’s a real piece of shit.”

I stepped forward, scanning the information. Arrests on a myriad of charges. Domestic disturbance. A hospital report from when Noah was seven. A broken arm, listed as from a “fall down the stairs.” Bullshit. And the medical records just kept coming.

“Oh, look at this. He’s got debts. Big ones.” He leaned back in his chair. “So, you’ve got an abusive asshole who’s also in deep with a bookie. What’s the plan, Prez?”

My blood boiled. I had no patience for men who hurt kids—especially ones like Noah who already had the odds stacked against him.

“I’m handling it,” I growled.

Jax smirked. “Thought you might say that.”

Tank chuckled from across the room. “Want backup?”

I shook my head. “No. This one’s personal.”

By the time I pulled up to Noah’s dilapidated house, my rage was a living, breathing thing.

The place was a shithole—paint peeling, trash piled near the porch, a busted-out window covered with cardboard. I could already tell what kind of man lived here. A coward. A bully.

I slammed my fist against the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

A moment later, it cracked open, revealing a thin, greasy-haired man in a stained tank top. Bloodshot eyes gave me a cursory onceover before narrowing. “Who the fuck are you?”

I didn’t answer. I shoved the door open, stepping inside like I owned the place.

“Hey—”

I fisted the man’s shirt and slammed him into the nearest wall.

“You put your hands on that boy again,” I said, menacingly, “and I’ll break every fucking bone in your body.”

His face twisted with anger. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about?—”

I punched him in the gut, cutting off his bullshit excuse. The man gasped, doubling over.

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