The Forbidden Throb Chapter 62

Daniel's POV:

My hand tightened around the phone. "Where are you?"

A pause. The sound of her breathing, uneven and shallow. "Um... there's a convenience store. Corner of Commonwealth and Exeter."

"Stay there." I was already moving toward the parking garage, my footsteps echoing against concrete. "I'm coming."

I braced for the protest—*You don't have to*, *I'm fine*, *Don't bother*—the reflexive deflections she always offered.

Instead, the line went quiet for a beat. Then, I heard: "Okay."

Just that. One word, soft and immediate.

The absence of resistance sent alarm bells ringing through my head. That quiet acquiescence told me more than any amount of distress in her voice could have.

The phone stayed pressed to my ear as I reached the car, fumbling slightly with the keys.

I didn't hang up. Neither did she.

In the background of the call, I could hear the hum of refrigeration units, the electronic chime of a door opening and closing. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

She didn't sound fine. But at least she was safe, coherent, responsive.

The drive should have taken twenty minutes. I made it in twelve.

I spotted the convenience store's fluorescent sign and pulled into a loading zone, not bothering to find proper parking. If I got a ticket, so be it.

Through the glass storefront, I could see her.

Emma sat at a small table near the window, her back to the wall, face angled toward the door.

She looked... intact. No visible injuries. Her coat was properly buttoned, hair still in its usual neat waves. A half-eaten sandwich sat on the table beside an untouched bottle of water.

Relief flooded through me, sharp and immediate.

*She's okay. She's safe.*

But as I pushed through the door, the bell chiming overhead, I saw what I'd missed from outside.

She sat stiffly, clutching a paper coffee cup tightly in both hands, her expression blank.

And her eyes, when they met mine—

Red-rimmed. Glassy.

My heart clenched. My relief evaporated.

"Hi." Her voice was carefully light. "Sorry for the dramatic call. I'm fine, really."

I slid into the chair beside her—not across from her, but close. Within reach.

Emma's gaze slid away, fixing on the table. "I'm sorry I interrupted your work."

"Emma." I kept my voice gentle. "Look at me."

She did, slowly, and that's when I saw what she'd been hiding.

Her eyes weren't just red-rimmed. They were glassy with unshed tears, bright with something that looked like barely contained panic. The careful composure was a facade, held together by sheer force of will.

My chest constricted painfully.

"Tell me what happened," I said quietly.

A pause. The convenience store's harsh fluorescent lighting hummed overhead. Somewhere behind the counter, a refrigerator unit cycled on with a mechanical wheeze.

For a long moment, she just stared at me. Then her eyes filled.

Not dramatically. Not with sobs or gasps. Just a slow welling of tears that made my chest feel like it was being crushed in a vice.

"Am I..." She stopped, swallowed. "Am I a coward, Daniel?"

Of all the things I'd expected her to say, that wasn't among them.

"No." The word came out too sharp. I softened my tone. "Why would you think that?"

"Because I—" Her breath hitched. "Because when things get hard, I just... I run away. I don't fight back. I don't stand up for myself. I just leave."

I watched a single tear track down her cheek.

Slowly, carefully, I reached across the space between us. My thumb brushed against her cheekbone, catching the tear before it fell.

"You came to Boston alone," I said quietly. "You put yourself through school. You worked to support yourself."

I leaned forward slightly, willing her to hear me. "You survived a childhood that would have broken most people, and you did it with grace. That's not cowardice, Emma. That's extraordinary courage."

She shook her head, another tear falling. "But today I—"

I waited, keeping my expression open, receptive.

The silence stretched. Around us, the convenience store hummed with mundane activity—the refrigerator cycling, someone paying for cigarettes at the counter, the electronic beep of the register.

Emma's hands were shaking now, fingers twisting together in her lap.

I didn't push. Didn't prompt. Just let the quiet space exist until she was ready to fill it.

Finally, her voice came out flat. "There was... at work, there was this dinner. My editor, he... he touched me under the table. And I just—I froze. I didn't say anything. I didn't tell him to stop. I just made an excuse and left like a coward."

The fluorescent lights suddenly felt too bright. Too harsh.

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

"Which editor?" My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Distant. Too calm.

She flinched slightly at my tone. I immediately regretted it.

"James Hayes," she whispered.

My hands had curled into fists under the table. I forced them to relax, finger by finger, before she could notice.

*James Hayes.*

I knew the name. I'd seen it in the paper, watched him receive awards at journalism galas. Respected. Influential.

The urge to find him, to make him understand exactly what he'd done—

But Emma was here. Emma needed me to be calm.

"Listen to me." I waited until her eyes met mine. "Being afraid doesn't make you a coward. It makes you human."

I kept my voice steady, controlled. "That man took advantage of his position. That's on him. Not you."

"But I didn't—"

"You got yourself to safety." The words came out more forcefully than I'd intended. "You removed yourself from the situation. You called me for help. Do you know how much courage that takes? How many people can't do even that?"

She was staring at me now, tears still falling but slower.

"Telling someone takes courage too," I continued. "Acknowledging what happened, saying it out loud—that's the first step in taking back your power. And you did that."

Her breath caught. "I... I didn't expect..."

"What?"

"That you'd understand." Her voice was barely audible. "I'm afraid you'd think I was making too much of it. Or that I'd somehow encouraged—"

"No." The word came out hard. I had to pause, moderate my tone. "Emma, no. You did nothing wrong. Nothing."

The relief that crossed her face was devastating.

I held out my hand.

I held her carefully, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other coming up to cradle her head. My coat—still draped over her shoulders—created a buffer between us, but I could feel the tremors running through her frame.

"You're safe," I murmured against her hair. "I've got you."

She made a sound that might have been agreement or simply exhaustion, her fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt.

---

Once she was settled in the passenger seat, I adjusted the temperature controls, directing the heat toward her.

Emma leaned her head against the window, eyes already half-closed.

"Tired?" I asked softly, pulling out onto Commonwealth Avenue.

"Mmm." A non-answer, but her eyelids were drooping.

By the time I merged onto Storrow Drive, Emma's breathing had deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep.

I glanced over at her. In repose, the tension had finally left her face.

With my free hand, I pulled out my phone and made a call.

"I need you to look into someone." I kept my voice low. "James Hayes. Senior editor at the Boston Chronicle."

*Hayes would answer for what he'd done. But that was for tomorrow.*