Taming Emma(39)

“Oh my God! Nate!” Celia was down the stairs. “Nate, you…I can’t believe you’re fighting like this. Both of you! You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The men looked at each other, both a little dazed. Nate reached a hand to Luke and Luke took it. They stood, Luke testing the spot Nate had hit.

“I’m sorry,” Nate said. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”

“You’re bleeding,” Emma said. She tried to go to the kitchen to get a towel, but Luke wouldn’t let go of her.

“It’s ok, it’s nothing,” Luke said, wiping the blood from his lip.

“Luke…” Nate began again.

“It’s ok, Nate. It’s nothing,” Luke said, his eyes on Emma the entire time.

“I’ll put on some coffee,” Celia started.

“No, you need to get to bed,” Nate said.

“He’s right. I’ll get the coffee on,” Emma said.

“Come on, Nate. Take me to bed,” Celia said, her eyes on the younger couple.

Nate nodded, but turned to Luke. “Don’t hurt her,” he said.

“I don’t plan on it,” Luke answered.

They stared at each other for some time before Celia’s nudge turned into tugging and Nate and Celia retreated to their bedroom.

Luke turned to Emma.

“I’ll make that coffee.” She dropped her eyes to his hand that was still wrapped around her arm.

He let her go, his expression letting her know he didn’t realize he still held it. Luke followed her to the kitchen and watched while she made an ice pack and handed it to him.

“You look like shit, Luke,” she said.

“I’ve been better,” he said, sitting at the table while she made coffee.

She leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her chest, waiting for him to speak.

“Come here, Emma. Sit down.”

“I don’t understand, Luke. I don’t understand you,” she began, ignoring his request. “I don’t even know what to say.” She shook her head and turned to get two mugs. Filling them with coffee, she brought them to the table and sat down across from him. “What do you want from me?”

It took him a few moments to speak. “I think you’re the bravest person I know, Emma.” He picked up his cup.

She stared at him. What was she supposed to say to that? She picked up her cup and sipped, then set it down. “I’m not brave, Luke. I’m just tired of running away from everything.”

His eyes were rimmed red and the spot Nate had hit was going to leave a nasty mark.

“Me, too,” he said.

“Put the ice pack on your jaw, Luke.”

He picked up the bag and pressed it against his face.

He looked different tonight. He wasn’t the same man she’d seen that night at the party, the self-assured, elegant, English Dom. He was a little more insecure, a little on edge, and unsure. His body language gave it away and as much as she wanted to just take him into her arms, she needed to protect her own heart.

“My mother took me away from my dad when I was ten,” he began, his eyes steady on hers.

She tilted her head, not following.

“To the world, we were the perfect family. My parents looked like the couple who had it all.” He looked just beyond her, his eyes not quite focused. “But we weren’t that behind closed doors. He used to beat her, often in front of me. I never knew any better, I just knew that I was scared of him, that was all. He didn’t start on me until I was ten.”

“Oh God…”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her speak at all. “My aunt, Evelyn, helped my mom and me to get away from him. We ran away. That was the first time I ran and it’s become a habit that’s stuck, it seems,” he said, his eyes focusing on hers, trying to make the comment lighter than it was. “We took on new identities and lived in hiding for that first year. My mom was always scared, terrified he’d find us and if he did, she knew he’d kill us. Or at least he’d kill her.”

“Luke…” she said.

“That’s why I took the Roark name. I didn’t want to have anything to do with my biological father. Keenan Roark was the only father I cared to remember.”

Emma watched, her hands on her lap. They were shaking too much to hold on to the hot coffee.

“When Evelyn called that night, she was telling me my father was dying. She wanted me to come make peace with him. To forgive him.”

“Luke…”

He put a hand up to stop her. “I went.” He broke eye contact and looked away. He squeezed his eyes shut, then forced his attention back to her. “When I saw him,” now his voice cracked and it took him a moment to continue, “when I saw him, I didn’t remember him. I didn’t feel anything for him, not pity, not hate, surely not love. He was just an old man, a stranger. He cried when he saw me,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “And I didn’t feel a damn thing.”