Page 4 of The Truth of Our Secrets

Jayce

My mind calms as we walk the couple of blocks to our apartment. When I realized who Emmet was, my instinct flared to burn the place down and escape with Madyson. Leave the place in ashes so he could never hurt her again. She’s spent years and tears he doesn’t deserve. She has such a big heart. Wanting to help everyone. But some people don’t deserve it.

Emmet is violent.

There’s irrefutable evidence. Even if he snapped for a good reason, I don’t care. I’m not risking her safety around him.

I assumed he was gone forever. This city has millions of people and he found us. His family lived in a trailer park miles from here. How the hell could he afford to move here?

Fuck. I need to keep him away from her. I have no idea if his temper has gotten better or worse, but over my dead body will he hurt Madyson.

The doorman waves as we enter the building and take the elevator to our floor.

“Baby girl, can I talk to you in the kitchen for a minute?” She follows me through the open floor plan of our living room into the kitchen. I round the island and lean against our small dining table in a tiny alcove, out of sight from the living room. Trying to seem casual, I say, “I’m confused. We decided it was best to let him go his own way.” My voice is low since he’s not far away.

“True.” Her soulful green eyes plead for understanding. “But a pipe burst in his apartment, and he needs somewhere to stay tonight. He acted like it wasn’t a big deal. That finding a place at eleven-thirty p.m. on a weeknight is a usual thing. He brushed off all my questions, and he ate like he was starving. I’m worried about him.” She speaks in a rushed whisper.

“I couldn’t stop the bullies in high school or make sure he had enough to eat. But I can do this. Just this one night.” Her arms circle my waist and she presses a kiss to my pec.

He can’t harm her when I’m here, but I’m not happy. Her arms grip me tighter and tears form in her eyes. I relent and hug her back.

My gut tells me he’s not an immediate danger. Or more specifically, my nose. Madyson jokes I’m part wolf. She reads romances where shifters can smell emotions. Once I inhaled her scent of vanilla, honey, and roses, I was hooked. I had to have her.

Emmet’s delicious scent of clary sage, sandalwood, and leather instantly put my mind and body at odds. His smell draws me in instead of pushing me away.

My nose has never let me down. If a person’s smell is off, I avoid them. Eventually, they do something that proves my sense of smell right. The one time I ignored it, with my ex, Peter, it led to a complete disaster.

Given the facts, my reaction to Emmet is fucked up. But tonight, he’ll have to go through me to get to her, so I won’t confront him.

I’d be concerned he knows our address, but we have a doorman. Madyson always defers to me on safety issues and this won’t be any different.

We find Emmet leaning against the wall next to the entry. In New York City all the living spaces are small, so he probably heard us.

“Emmet, I’m so sorry. I assumed you’d make yourself comfortable,” Madyson says.

“I wouldn’t dare to assume anything,” he says with his eyes on me.

My wife dismisses my distrust of him, but he doesn’t. Good.

“Well, come in.” Madyson motions for him to follow her. “This is home.” She flings her arms to encompass our living room. She has filled the space with artwork from her gallery, so the room is comfortable and cozy. The walls are gray and the furniture is beige, so the brightly colored paintings, throw rugs, and ceramics pop. The island marks the transition into the kitchen. Another hall leads to the bathroom, primary bedroom, guest room, and office.

It’s a little over 1300 square feet, which is on the large side of average for New York City. Madyson changed the bland, sterile apartment into a home.

When Emmet asks about her art, she gushes. Our friends know she made all the ceramics, but no one ever asks about her process or inspiration.

“Okay, Mr. Frowny Face,” Madyson teases me, “give him the full tour.”

“Are there locks on the bedroom doors?” Emmet asks, and both Madyson and I are silent for a beat, processing his questions. “Just in case,” he jacks his thumb at me, “he’s plotting mymurder.” He delivers the line deadpan, but his eyes sparkle with a challenge as he smirks.

Despite my best effort, a chuckle rumbles in my chest. “Plotting is for amateurs. You gotta act in the moment.” I match his energy.

“I guess age always knows best,” he quips.

“No age talk in this house.” Madyson puts her hands on her hips. I don’t think she wants to be reminded that there’s a four-year age difference between them, which means I’m a decade-plus older than him.

Emmet presses his lips together to signal he won’t say another word.

“Good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” Madyson flips her hair over her shoulder.

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