15. Darker Days （Talia）

15

DARKER DAYS (TALIA)

I can't help wondering what I did wrong.

I watch Micah sleep, white as moonlight against the dark sheets. His glasses are on the nightstand.

I know now if he opens his eyes, I'll be nothing but a blur of color until he fumbles the lenses onto his face. The lack of pigment in his eyes means he's almost blind without assistance—and a little sensitive about it.

After the first time he told me while I watched him poke those little lenses into his eyes, I've never mentioned it again.

I've found myself avoiding a lot of things lately.

His bed is enormous and increasingly familiar. I've spent almost every night here since our last stakeout in the woods.

I thought we were starting something, I guess.

Maybe I was just being na?ve.

This starry-eyed girl who's never been in love before.

So wrapped up in my fantasies that I didn't realize he wasn't really there with me, thinking about the future.

Still, as long as I'm naked with Micah's teeth on my skin and his cock inside me, there's no shortage of intimacy.

Raw, vulnerable, he lets me see this wild thing inside him, lets me see how there's some wounded part of him that needs to take it out on someone else.

It doesn't scare me.

Not at all.

It feels divine.

The burn of his teeth, the feeling of being willingly powerless while this beast devours my body, mind, and soul. It really is like having my own vampire, ready to play the darkest fantasy.

But as soon as we're sweaty and tangled up and done, he goes quiet.

Yes, he holds me close, kissing my hair and checking to make sure he hasn't done any lasting damage. Sometimes, he pulls me into a steaming shower and cleans me with a reverent touch.

He caresses me with a tenderness that makes me feel cherished.

Loved.

Like he'll leave the hottest bruises on my skin just to kiss them later, growling that he'll always keep me safe.

But he just won't talk to me.

He locks up, and when I try to talk to him, he says he's tired.

I'm not buying it.

Because more than once, I've woken up and caught him pacing, brooding around the house with a tumbler of whiskey. Even Rolf watches him, occasionally glancing at me like he knows I'm awake and he wants me to fix this.

God, but I don't know how .

Because I don't know where Micah goes when he gets like this.

I just know it has everything to do with Xavier Arrendell, the Jacobins, and Micah's dead brother.

I also know he hasn't confronted Joseph Peters yet. I'm the one who's supposed to make that happen.

I just haven't been back to the house yet, not when I've been putting it off.

This quiet glow I get with Micah, when he's kissed me until my mouth tastes swollen and hot and my body feels so well used, it's everything.

And I don't want to destroy that with Xavier's bullcrap.

He emailed me the other day.

Just a brief, stiff apology, explaining that he was drunk and not fully himself. He didn't mean to make me uncomfortable, he says.

B.S.

It feels like a pretense to get me up there again so he can back me into a corner and watch me squirm. There's a horrible difference between a man who makes me hurt so good and a man who truly wants to hurt me for his own selfish delight.

It's darkly funny and twisted, yes.

But it's so much different when I want it.

And Micah always makes sure I want it every time.

Xavier Arrendell doesn't care about what I want at all.

Only about scaring me.

I'll go tomorrow, though.

I'm done being chicken.

We'll set up a meeting with new fabrics and fresh concepts. I'll get Joseph Peters alone and ask him to hang close—and I'll do whatever I can to hint that he needs to meet with Micah soon.

If he'll roll on Xavier—if I get how police stuff works—he can avoid being charged as an accessory.

Plus, I kinda want to ask him a few things myself.

Like how dirty our kindly old police chief Bowden really gets.

But I'd probably make a mess of things.

So I'll just be as subtle as I can and hope that Micah will take it from there.

"You stare loudly," he groans, turning his face into his pillow.

He's just a messy tuft of hair, half-buried in the lushly thick king-sized pillow.

He tends to sleep on his stomach with one arm draped over me, the hard ridges of his back visible above the covers. A few old faded scars mapping his history linger across his shoulders and spine.

"Sorry." I smile and snuggle into the crook of his arm. "How often do I get to watch the vampire man, sound asleep in his lair?"

"Very funny, Shortcake." Yawning, he bares those teeth that tease me all the time. Then he rolls on his side to face me, his eyes opening into sleepy silvery-blue slits. He stretches one arm back in a lazy flex, grabs his glasses, and slides them on his nose. It's hard not to tell him how cute he is when he does that. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I—yeah, it is." I'm not a good liar, but I try. "I was just thinking about going up to the big house tomorrow. I can't avoid him forever, and I'm the only link between you and Joseph Peters, right?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean—" He stops, sighs, and caresses my cheek. "This is fucked up, Talia. You don't have to pretend you're not afraid to be there."

"I'm not pretending. I am afraid, but I'd be there even if you weren't involved, Micah. I just wouldn't know how to watch my back." I smile weakly. "And we'd still be strangers while I worked on the renovation."

Something in his eyes shutters over.

As always, I can't get a good read on him. He's so free with his touch and so guarded with his emotions.

"Do you wish we were still strangers sometimes? Would that make it easier to deal with Xavier?"

"What? No!" I push myself up on one elbow, clutching the sheets against my naked chest. "Micah, this time with you…" I bite my lip.

"What are you trying to say, Talia?"

It feels like a stranger asking me that.

Like Officer Ainsley, probing at a suspect.

That stabs hard, and I look away sharply.

"Nothing," I say. "It's fine. We should sleep. We both have work in the morning."

"Don't do that." He pushes himself up, tilting his head to try to catch my eye. His fingers trail over my shoulder. "It's just going to fester if you don't let it out."

"But what if letting it out makes things worse? With us, I mean?"

"Is there something wrong with us?"

Yes.

No.

Maybe?

"I don't know." I press my face into my palm and shake my head. There I go, making a bigger mess when I didn't mean to start anything at all. "I'm just wondering what we are, I guess. Because I'm not your girlfriend, am I?"

I don't want to look at him.

But his silence demands it.

When I glance back, he's watching me calmly.

Almost too calmly.

Like any part of him that might be affected is totally walled away.

I meet his eyes, then drop my gaze.

"Say something," I whisper.

But he doesn't.

I feel him shifting.

Every silent second twists my heart into knots.

But when Micah sits up and pulls me in close, I can't resist.

His warmth is so familiar. I still throb all over with the way he's used me, touched me, made me feel wrecked and loved all at once.

He pulls me into his arms, so close until we're skin to skin, intimate yet so very distant.

Warm lips press into my hair, hot breaths curling over my skin.

"Don't get too attached," he breathes. "I'm bad for you, Talia. Look at the shit I make you do."

"Things I want ," I throw back. Part of me feels angry enough to shove him, but I don't want to break away, so I just hide my face in his shoulder. "Look, I know I'm not like you. I'm young and na?ve but I'm not clueless, Micah Ainsley. Sometimes people like getting kinky. You like biting me, and I like being bitten. That's not corrupting me somehow. I like this mouth."

I reach up, touching a finger to his lips.

He goes quiet again. I pull back to look up at him, searching his gorgeous, icy face.

"That's what you've been thinking all this time, isn't it?" I ask. "That you're tainting me somehow just by sleeping with me."

"No. Not by sleeping with you."

"Then how?" I'm almost demanding an answer, my voice breaking. "What do you think is so awful about you that you're nothing but trouble?"

I look at him and I realize that cold fa?ade hides something else.

Emotion, raw and ugly and almost startled as he looks at me with those stark silver-blue eyes.

"I'm not a real man, dammit. I'm not whole . I'm a black pit, full of hate and violence, pretending to be decent. I didn't come here to arrest Xavier Arrendell, Talia. I came here to kill him. And once I do that, after it's done…"

"What? What else will you do?" My heart forms a lump in my throat.

"I won't be anything at all. Once that's out of me, there's not enough left to make a complete person." He smiles bitterly. "I'll probably be in jail, anyway."

Oh my God.

It stings knowing Micah really can't see himself.

He doesn't see all the things I see in him: his pride, his bravery, his dedication. That grumpy chip on his shoulder from being belittled his entire life and fighting like mad to prove he's better than everyone who ever put him down.

That dry, self-deprecating humor.

That heart so full of grief from losing his brother, still weighing as heavily as if it only happened yesterday. Not because he's empty, but because he feels too much .

The way he's so gentle with me, even when he's marking me.

The way he always does the right thing, even when I can tell he doesn't want to.

And I think he'll do the right thing in the end when it comes to Xavier, too.

Because even if Micah has a secret darkness, I know who and what he is.

He's not a killer.

Deep down, I'm sure of that.

I touch his cheek lightly, tracing his cheekbone. It's so stark, like someone took a piece of white quartz and shattered it into these faceted edges.

"You're more than that," I whisper. "I know you'll probably tell me I'm projecting. That it's just my fantasy. That I'm seeing you as what I want and not a real person." I smile wryly. "But if you were my fantasy man, it wouldn't be so irritating that you use up all the hot water in the morning before I'm awake. If you were all fantasy, I wouldn't live for the times when you forget to brood and actually laugh. I wouldn't love your terrible sense of humor or how flipping grumpy you are."

" Hey ." He lets out a tired laugh. "I'm not grumpy. Just don't have much time for people's bullshit."

"Sometimes you are." I grin, stroking my thumb over his cheek. "And sometimes you're just an awkward grumpy-grump who's been alone for so long you forgot how to be around other people. But I think there's some part of you trying to remember."

"C'mon, that's enough." His eyes soften, and he presses his cheek to my palm, a hint of stubble teasing against my skin. "You aren't supposed to be the observant one, Miss Grey."

"I guess I learned a thing or two from the man who keeps pinning me on my back every night and making me scream."

"Yeah? Now who has a terrible sense of humor?" But his lips quirk and he holds me closer, leaning in to rest his brow on my temple. "You're right. I am fucking awkward and bad-tempered at times. There are also things you don't know about me, Talia, and I don't know how to tell you. Until I figure it out, can we let this be what it is? Does it need a name? A label?"

For a second, I mull it over.

"No. No, it doesn't." It still hurts a bit to say that, but it's better than him saying there's nothing between us at all, instead of something nameless.

Nameless, I can deal with, I think.

Even if it leaves a small hole inside me that feels like it could widen if I feed my doubts into it. But I make myself smile and brush my lips over his.

"Nameless or not, you still get to answer Grandpa's uncomfortable questions when I go limping home in the morning," I tell him.

Micah lets out a half growl, half groan. "…will you let me off the hook if I give you one more reason to limp?"

The mere suggestion ignites my blood.

Sex was always this flowery thing in my head, before I knew what it could really be like. Before I knew it could be slow and raw and deep, or wild and rough and deliciously intense.

Honestly, if we don't last, I don't know how anyone else will ever measure up.

I feel like I have to hold on to this for as long as I can.

Take every chance.

So I slip my arms around his neck, leaning into him.

I'm already sore and well used, but I desperately want to know how it will feel for him to take me when my flesh is already so tender I almost can't stand it.

So I push him back, watching the way his eyes flash with desire, turning smoky and dark as I nudge him onto his back.

I slip across him, straddling his waist.

And I can already feel his cock pressing against me, hot against my naked flesh and harder than steel.

There's a powerful throb against me as I rock my hips, grinding against him. I stop with a shudder as my breath catches and my entire body goes hot, friction pulsing inside me until I feel myself growing slick.

Sighing, I slide my fingers over his chest, following the pale contours of his skin. He's so sculpted he could be made of marble.

"Don't just make me limp," I whisper. "Make me scream. "

Micah's eyes sharpen.

There it is—that predatory light that thrills me.

This thing almost like fear but not quite when I trust him so much.

He's like a carnivore that's caught the scent of blood, his lips parting, his princely face turning feral.

"You may regret saying that," he warns. His hands curl hard around my hips.

His fingers bite, giving my flesh that wonderful sting.

" Ah! "

Holy hell, this is bad.

I'm falling so fast, so hard.

All it takes with Micah is two seconds of going dizzy.

Then the wild animal moves in for the kill.

He lifts me up by my hips, slides me over him, and in a single greedy stroke pulls me down on his cock, burying himself inside me.

Without warning, I'm full , spread open and straddling him.

I toss my head back with a cry, bracing my hands on his chiseled abs to keep from collapsing with the shocking pleasure.

He's so hard inside me.

This position opens me in ways that let him go deeper still.

With one vicious thrust, he takes me over, trapping me in white-hot pleasure.

Gasping.

Paralyzed.

Whimpering.

I try to rock my hips, try to twist, but there's no escaping who's really in control. Especially when he freaking stops and just grabs my hips, holding me impaled on his cock.

His eyes spill into mine, furious and glinting.

He stares up at me with that cunning smile wilder than ever, dark and brimming with lust.

"Don't think you'll get off that easy, Shortcake," he whispers. "I think I'll keep you like this until I'm good and ready."

I freeze—as much as I can with my body still trying to move, this wild thing beyond my control.

I'm desperate, starving for his hot strokes.

"Wh-what?" I dart my tongue over my lips. "You want me to stay like this?"

"Yeah. Let a man enjoy the view." His smile widens as he sits up in a controlled flex that makes every muscle in his body stand out—and makes his cock shift inside me slowly, pulling gasps from my throat. "Maybe I want to play with you a little first."

"Play?"

He's killing me.

With him, play could mean hours of this delicious torture before he lets me come. Or he could make me come so fast and furious I can't stand it anymore.

Either way, I know he won't let me go until dawn.

Yet even with that menace in his smile, there's a sweetness there, too.

And it's there when he kisses me, when he lets go of my hips to slowly move his hands up my back. His mouth caresses mine so gently with a promise.

I'm only here as long as I want to be.

If it's ever too much, I know he'll stop.

And it's that belief, that faith, that lets me melt against him, sinking into his sultry kiss with a sigh.

God, this feels good .

Micah spreads my thighs, his cock so hot inside me, this slow inferno slipping deeper, deeper with each moment his mouth teases over mine.

His tongue probes inside my mouth, his hands so sure and firm on my naked skin.

If it were just this, I could stay this way until dawn, languishing in his glory.

But I know better.

I know, and just as I let my guard down, kissing him with pure reverence, he moves.

His hand swats my ass, an open-palmed smack! that stings just enough to make me gasp and jerk my hips forward.

I let out a broken moan as his cock plunges up, prodding that sensitive spot that makes every nerve ending a shrieking ball of sweet agony.

My back arches as I break his kiss, digging my nails into his shoulders and tossing my head back.

Big mistake.

Because all I'm doing is baring myself to him—and before I can hope to recover, his mouth latches on to the upper curve of my breast.

He's kissing and sucking and biting with a fierceness he's trained me to love.

And it's only the first move of that lethal mouth before his lips work on my nipples and then dart away with the lightest sparking tease.

All while his worn hands dig into my ass, slowly flinging me up and down on his cock.

"Woman, you're flushed. I want you red, " he spits.

Oh God.

There's no escaping him.

No matter how I twist, how I tense, how I shudder, I can't help feeling him turning me inside out.

He wrecks me even with the slowest thrusts.

And there's no stopping the soft sounds pouring out of me, whimpers and cries rushing out.

I can't help the sounds rising between my thighs, either.

Each time I jerk in response to his taunting, I'm wetter than before. Our flesh goes damp with sweet, sucking sounds.

His mouth roams my chest, my shoulders, my throat.

Like a true vampire, he's always so drawn to it, and my pulse flutters as his mouth ghosts vulnerable skin.

Teasing, making me wait for it, the anticipation coiling in a tight, ragged knot in the pit of my stomach.

I'm ready to scream myself hoarse by the time he stops on my neck.

And I do scream as he sucks my skin.

My nails bite his shoulders—then pull away as he catches my hands, forces them behind my back, holds them there in one hand.

His free hand cups my breast, rolling, squeezing, digging his fingers in, flicking my nipple with his tongue.

As his teeth play with my flesh, he crushes me against him until I'm helpless and convulsing around his cock, completely losing my mind.

It's too much.

Twin points of heat against my throat, my back curling into this vulnerable position by his bruising grip, my arms trapped, my nipples throbbing as he pinches and rolls and teases.

My clit grinds against the base of his cock.

His thick shaft moves inside me, kissing me from the inside, imprinting him on me like clay.

I'm so gone, tightening around his girth like a glove.

I can't handle it.

Not another thrust.

Finally, I snap , breaking like someone split me in half, shaking as my O rockets through me.

It feels like getting fucked raw and deep, my inner walls clenched around his cock, pressing down tight and then relaxing.

Over and over, a rhythm that leaves me struggling to breathe.

To whisper.

To do anything besides dissolve into a shattered mess.

"Little rocket," he groans softly, thrumming against the skin of my throat.

It tells me how much he loves it when I come on him.

Just how much he feels it when I'm so sensitive I can feel him swelling inside me, thickening, his pulse beating violently.

It's so close.

So intimate I want to hide.

Curling forward into him, I whimper as I bury my face against his neck like I'm mimicking my mock-vampire lover.

That's it.

I'm so completely ruined.

"Talia." He kisses my jaw, the corner of my mouth. His voice is husky, raw. His fingers tighten on my wrists. "Talia, fucking move for me."

Oh, I try—but the second my body tightens even a fraction, sensitive pain stabs up inside me, this hyper-aroused aftermath where the slightest touch can make me scream.

I whimper, shaking my head and burying my face deeper in his throat.

"I… I can't …"

His palm cups my cheek as he looks at me, coaxing my head to rise.

He helps me find his lips in a sticky kiss that slips into me and opens me in the most sinful way, leaving me helpless.

Slow, so slow, yet always in control.

Always stripping my will until I'm his.

Truly, completely, irrevocably.

And when I open my eyes as our lips part, I see him.

I meet his glacial eyes, and I realize he knows.

He knows exactly what he does to me and he's enjoying it.

Relishing the fact that he can make me beg for pain, for relief, for pleasure, for anything .

Knowing that I'll push past my physical limits and give myself up in the sweetest ways, just to feel him come.

"You can," he whispers, stroking his thumb along my cheek. There's a moment when his cock jerks inside me, and I suck in a breath, thighs tensing.

"Move for me, Talia. Let me see you suffer for your pleasure."

A low, keening sound rips from my throat.

I tremble, fear clutching up in my stomach and chest.

But it's that fear of something you want, if only you're brave enough to risk it.

I know it won't hurt. I know I'll love the pain.

And after meeting his eyes for a few shivering moments, I move.

Just the slightest switch of my hips at first—only to freeze, tensing with a cry as his cock slips against my inner walls and sensation screams through me.

I feel like a raw nerve, too much stimulation, too swollen and sore already and now this, now this .

Yet stopping makes it worse, the flare of his cock head presses against that brutally sensitive spot deep inside me that feels like a trigger.

I'm afraid to move.

But I can't not when I'm vibrating like a plucked violin string.

I've never had a clit this swollen in my life.

Teeth clenched, I shift again, rocking back, easing some of the pressure inside me but only making the other feelings worse as his friction hits.

Every imprint of his shape teases me while he stretches me out, carving the ridges of his veins into me, his pubic bone grazing my clit with vicious shocks.

I'm so ready.

So ready to break.

Again, a little thrust.

A small rock of my hips before I have to stop.

Again, again !

Each time wrenching a whimper from my throat and a boiling curse from his.

"Fuck, Talia. I'm going to fill that pussy up."

The promise destroys me.

I have to squeeze my eyes shut because the way he's looking at me on the edge feels like being devoured.

Yet even closing my eyes can't hide me from the reality.

Micah's gaze touches me everywhere, his long fingers holding me captive, his other hand sliding down to seize my ass.

The next time I move, he's going faster.

He jerks me against him roughly, turning those tiny, controlled movements into a sudden rolling thrust.

I scream.

He catches my mouth and steals my breath, pushing his tongue in, dominating my lips in an instant.

Ruling my body as he moves with me, his powerful thighs flex under me as he pushes himself up to meet me and drags me down with him.

I'm nearly sobbing with the heat of it.

There's a trembling moment when I could fall apart if my lungs give out, but I won't let them when I need this.

I need him .

I need more while we're writhing together, faster and desperate and chaotic as wild animals.

His teeth turn cruel against my mouth, biting me until my lips are as sensitive as my pussy.

He's so bad, but so good to me, erasing the thin line between pain and pleasure.

Until I can't stand it.

Until I short-circuit, becoming a bundle of live wires and coursing energy.

I'm thrashing and panting and losing the rhythm as the blinding pleasure takes control.

Tearing me apart.

Leaving me lost in this riptide lashing my body and this beautiful monster growling in my ear.

I'm fused to him so tight I'm nearly crushing him, my body somehow finding a way to take him deeper. Deeper than he's ever been before, marking me inside in the worst and best ways, and then—

I feel it.

That moment he comes undone, his grip suddenly so much harsher.

His lips part with a guttural sound, half curse and all animal.

His dick surges, raw and rough and overflowing.

Everything I am mixes with Micah until we're both a dripping mess.

Until we find each other where the waters meet.

Until we're drowning together.

God, I really am drowning in him.

I'm in so deep I don't mind his vast darkness or the nameless thing we've become.

I just know that after loving Micah Ainsley, there's no earthly way I'll ever be the same.

I can't remember falling asleep.

I think I blacked out toward the end as I came down from my high.

Micah must have untangled our bodies and put me to bed because when I wake up with the morning sun stabbing through the window while my feet are numb from Rolf sleeping on them, I'm still with him.

Safely cradled in his arms and tucked under the covers with absolutely no recollection of how I got here.

Though my body remembers what he did to me last night.

…and the fact that I still have to walk up that hill today on foot .

Ugh.

Groaning, I burrow into Micah.

Just a little longer.

Just another minute before I have to go face Xavier Arrendell and pretend I don't know the awful truth and hope that this time he'll keep his grubby hands to himself. At least until after the first check clears.

"Stay put. My alarm still has about six minutes." Micah's voice drifts into my hair, gritty with sleep.

"I don't think six more minutes will make us any less tired," I whisper into his chest.

"Whose fault is that?"

" Yours. Totally ," I bite off.

His chest shakes against me in a muted chuckle.

"Good answer." He pauses and yawns into my hair. "You're going to make me get up, aren't you?"

"Mm-hmm," I mumble into his chest, still burrowed in and not moving at all. "Now I have to go home and get dressed and hope Grandpa doesn't notice I look like I've been attacked by vampire bats."

"I'll lend you a jacket to cover up." He sounds too smug as he kisses my jaw. "Shit. In what world am I lucky enough to land a girl with a vampire kink?"

"I don't have a vampire kink!" I shove at his chest. "I just have a very active imagination, thank you very much. And you just happen to tick a few of my boxes."

"A few?" He stares at me with his eyes narrowed. "So, you're telling me you wouldn't like me if I wasn't an albino fuck with a twisted appetite?"

He says it lightly, teasingly, but I wonder how much he's really asking.

If he really thinks I only want him as this unicorn thing who fits my fantasy, this rare freak who turns my crank and nothing else.

I pull back enough to really look at him.

He's perfection incarnate in the morning light.

Not that I'd ever tell him that when he'd just start scowling, killing that soft, sleepy expression.

He's described himself as a canvas for his father's violence in the past, but I don't think he realizes his skin can hold so many other colors.

Like the dawn light, casting gold and pink and even a little violet into his hair, his skin, his eyes, until he's not so pale at all.

He's wearing the morning, my very own fallen angel with an aura too beautiful for life.

I smile, touching my fingertips to his lips.

"Dye your hair black," I say. "Get a spray tan. File your teeth down. Gain fifty pounds. Micah, I won't care. It's not about how you look. It's about how you make me feel. And as far as the pain thing…" My smile widens. "I liked you before I even knew I liked it or knew you liked doing those kinds of things. So, yeah. Sorry, you're stuck with me."

I'm not sorry at all.

There's a ghost of last night's conversation there, too. That question of what we are, haunting us in every glance.

I can see it in his eyes, wondering if I'll push him again after he diverted me last night.

I don't have the heart for that right now.

So when he just smiles and kisses my forehead, I lean into him and let it go.

"I don't think I'll be dolling myself up like an extra from Jersey Shore anytime soon," he says. Then he nudges my hip. "C'mon. You can shower here so you don't have to go home a mess."

Oh, he definitely sounds smug.

I almost hate him for how easy it is to flex his lithe body and roll out of bed when I know I'll be limping the instant I stand up.

I watch him in pure disgust, eyeing him as he pads toward the bathroom, before I sit up with the sheets clutched against my chest.

I look at Rolf and snort.

"Can you believe your dad?"

The dog cocks his head at me, his ears up.

"Murf?" Rolf answers.

I snort again.

"Murf, indeed."

Even with work looming over our heads, it's an easy morning.

Separate showers this time—or else I won't be walking out of here under my own power—before he puts his uniform on and I shrug into the summery pink dress he ripped off of me last night.

I feed Rolf and give him a good brushing while Micah whips together coffee and breakfast. It's so smooth it's hard to believe we've fallen into this thing together so fast, but I can't complain.

It makes me feel like I'm really a part of Micah's life.

Not just a tourist, passing through his long, dark night.

Yet that wall remains, like I'm reaching for him through impenetrable glass. And that feeling hangs over me as he drops me off outside the shop with a new problem.

I can feel Grandpa watching from the window, but that doesn't stop Micah from kissing me before leaning over to unlock the passenger door.

Then that brazen jerk actually waves at Grandpa.

Oh my God.

"Are you kidding?" Spluttering, I shove his arm and duck out of the car.

The bell jingling above the shop door doesn't even fully stop before Grandpa looks up from pretending to check the price tag on a hand-carved rocking chair in the front window and beams at me brightly.

"So things must be going well with Mr. Ainsley?" His eyes glitter with mischief. "I'm starting to get lonely, eating breakfast all by myself."

Ouch, nice reality check.

Guilt swamps me as I kiss his wrinkled cheek.

What if something happened while I was out enjoying myself? Sure, he has Mrs. Brodsky checking and bringing him a few meals, but still.

What if he had one of his moments , and I came home with no idea where he might be or if he was even alive?

"I'm sorry, Grandpa. I'll stay home and we'll catch up tonight. I'll make your favorite, cranberry sugar crumble muffins."

"Oh, nonsense, girl." He swats my arm. "I don't need a damn nurse yet. Besides, you know I'm at my best in the mornings."

I smile.

It catches me off guard every time he talks about it openly.

I'm the one dancing around it, I guess, dreading the day when mornings won't be so kind to him anymore.

Maybe I got too used to people treating me that way, like something flawed that could break down any second.

Whispers behind hands, worried glances, long conversations behind closed doors I was never supposed to hear. A thousand things about my illness that never actually involved me.

I meet Grandpa's twinkling blue eyes.

No wonder we understand each other so well.

I think his gaze softens as the silence stretches between us. Then he catches my hand.

"Tally, I know you're doing what you're doing at the big house for me," he says. "Believe me, I'm grateful. Don't think I'm not just because I'm clinging to my independence with my fingernails. But I don't want you leashed to me, either. Do you know how happy it makes me to see you living for yourself?"

My heart hurts so sweetly.

Tightening my hold on his hand, I pull him into a hug, pressing my cheek into the grey and white wisps of his hair.

"They're not mutually exclusive, Grandpa. I can do both," I promise. "I can live for me—and do my best for you."

"I know you can, Tally-girl."

I nearly choke into a sob.

But I pull back before I let myself get too overwhelmed and take a shaky breath, smiling. "I'd better get moving. I need to change, and I'm due up at the big house soon."

"Go on, girl. Shoo! Wouldn't want to keep Mr. Arrendickhead waiting."

I snort, laughing and darting into the back of the shop, then upstairs. When I step into the bathroom in my bedroom, I'm suddenly grateful Grandpa is so tactful.

I'm human chaos.

Marked from neck to toe with the hickeys.

I hastily wash myself off, dabbing a few spots with a little salve because I know Micah worries about me. After that, I throw on new jeans and a nice turtleneck.

It's a little more formfitting than anything I'd want to wear around Xavier, but it's better than letting him see my neck and getting any new bizarre ideas.

This body only belongs to one man.

The strange, possessive thought makes me flustered as I do my makeup.

I'm going for the ‘Oh this? I'm not wearing any makeup at all, I woke up this way' look—secret: no girl ever wakes up like this.

Last, I grab my folio case before darting out with one last parting kiss for Grandpa.

Yep, I'm limping a tiny bit after all, still feeling Micah with every step. But at least I had the good sense to wear thick-soled boots.

They help soften the walk as I head up the hill with a confidence I don't deserve.

Or maybe I do.

Even if I loathe Xavier Arrendell, I'm feeling good about the final sketches and samples.

We've exchanged several terse emails ironing out the details since the last disaster of a meeting.

While he's been a little particular like the stuck-up jackwagon he is, I feel like I've captured the pulse of what he's going for.

Hopefully enough for him to sign off on it and start paying.

We're one signature away from the deposit check and speedrunning our options for Grandpa's care.

I already have a few good medical centers in Raleigh bookmarked on my phone.

The cognitive treatment will be a long-term thing and might even require visits to specialists out of state, but we can at least get him in for surgery to restore his hands. He'll be stubborn about missing out on work for recovery time, sure, but hey.

It's better than losing what he loves.

When I arrive at the Arrendell house, the day feels darker.

I still find a smile for Joseph Peters when he answers the door, swinging one of the big double doors open for me and offering me a polite, almost wary smile.

"Miss Grey," he says smoothly. His eyes are guarded. "My apologies, however, Mr. Arrendell was pulled into a snap meeting. I'll be happy to let you into his office to wait. He shouldn't be long."

I feel like my ears go up.

Alone in Xavier's office? Plus, a few minutes to feel Joseph out?

How did I get so lucky?

"That would be great, thanks!" I step into the house, turning to watch him as he shuts the door behind me. I even manage not to stammer.

I might be getting better at this whole spy thing.

"How have you been, Mr. Peters? Is everything okay?"

His brows knit together as he smooths his white gloves, then turns to lead me into the familiar red-carpeted hall to Xavier's office.

"Certainly, miss. All is well."

Is it?

"I'm not trying to pry," I say quickly, lurching forward to walk next to him. "I just feel a little like I upset you when I asked about Cora Lafayette. You're obviously still grieving and that's okay. It must be hard working in the house where she died."

Where this rotten family killed her , I want to say, but I don't dare.

There's a subtle stiffness to Joseph's posture as he glances at me, folding his hands behind his back.

"I appreciate your concern, Miss Grey," he says neutrally. "Fortunately, I am managing as well as I can."

Dang.

He's a tough nut to crack.

I guess he'd have to be, working here.

The things he sees, the secrets he keeps—like those late-night drives into the woods—I almost shudder to imagine.

He'd have to be a human fortress just to stay sane.

Rather than push him and make it too obvious, I just smile silently, letting him lead me along. Right next door to the office, there's another door slightly cracked.

I can just make out a long, glossy conference table and a large monitor with someone's face on it. There's a shadow passing back and forth through the slit, a hint of Xavier's tall silhouette, the shoulder of his well-tailored suit and the glint of his blond hair.

"—don't care if you have to build a fucking bridge across the Atlantic. Just get the damn ship into port!" I can hear him snarling—cold, furious words so different from the icy calm way he speaks to me. "When did I start paying you to make excuses?"

Joseph clears his throat pointedly.

"Miss Grey." He pushes the door to Xavier's office open.

Crap.

I shouldn't be so obvious with my eavesdropping.

"Thanks," I murmur, ducking past Joseph and into the empty room.

It doesn't feel as stifling without Xavier inside.

The golden light through the curtains actually feels a little welcoming as the sun pours over smooth varnished wood like honey.

"Would you care for a refreshment while you wait?" Joseph asks. "Tea, soda, water, coffee. We also have a small selection of pastries on hand. I could potentially scare the kitchen into putting together a light brunch, if you're feeling hungry."

"Oh, wow. I ate before I left, but thanks. A bottled water would be lovely," I say. He's starting to leave, and I take another chance, turning to face him. "Mr. Peters! Um, are you sure you're all right?" Time to be direct. I need him to know this is important. "You just seem tired. Too many late-night drives?"

Joseph freezes in the doorway.

His face goes pale.

He looks over his shoulder sharply, then steps inside and shuts the door quickly behind him. I've never seen his eyes so unsettled.

Ouch.

Even with the door closed, I can still hear Xavier's angry voice, though I can't make out what he's saying when it's muffled by the walls.

But it's Joseph who steals my focus as he hisses, "What do you know?"

Shit. Shit. Shit!

Okay.

So, that worked, but it doesn't mean I know how to handle this. I haven't leveled up my spy points that much.

I fumble for a moment, licking my lips.

"I know it must be hell cleaning the mud out of the town car's tires in the morning. It's not really made for old logging trails, is it?"

His eyes widen, glinting with fear.

His hands are still clutched on the doorknob behind him, and now they tighten until his gloves squeak as they rub the brass.

"Miss Grey," he says gruffly. "I need you to be very clear what you're implying right now."

"I can't be. You know I can't. Not any more than you can be open about what we're discussing," I say. "But if you want to get out of this and not be implicated as an accomplice, I know someone you should talk to."

His jaw juts out. "Respectfully, you know exactly what happens to people with loose lips in this household, Miss Grey."

"That's exactly why you should. Because of what happened to her ."

Cora, I mean. There's no need to say her name to his face.

I step closer.

I've never seen a man his height flinch back from someone as small as I am, but he winces like he thinks I could hurt him.

"Mr. Peters… Joseph, doesn't it ever eat you up inside, doing their dirty work and staying quiet for the folks who killed someone you cared so much about?"

"…that was Aleksander. And frankly, the little bastard got what was coming." His voice turns bitter, hard with sorrow. He averts his eyes. "Miss Grey, please don't press this matter. I've made peace with my demons. I suggest you work on yours before you wind up involved with something over your head. I'm warning you for your own good."

Fear knifes through me.

"I…" I lose it, feeling like a door's just been slammed in my face. I hope Micah won't be disappointed that I possibly screwed this up. I look away, fretting my hands against the strap of my bag. "Mr. Peters, I'm sorry. Please just don't mention this to the Arrendells?"

"Considering I couldn't bear to see you suffer the consequences, you have my word I won't," he bites off. "Never speak of it again."

"I won't if you won't!" I throw back. "But if you ever want help, the offer stands. Come find me. I'll point you in the right direction."

I take a bigger risk then.

Digging around in my bag, I find a small notepad with a pen clipped to it.

I quickly jot down Micah's number.

No name, nothing incriminating, then I rip the page off and offer it to Joseph.

He stares at it like it's active plutonium, making no move to take it.

Sighing, I fold it in half and slip it in the breast pocket of his tailcoat.

I don't know what I'm expecting him to say or do.

But he doesn't say anything.

He just looks down, then up at me again, his lips thinning.

There's the slow creak of the door opening. The click of the latch, a bit too hard and final.

And I'm alone, except for the agitated sound of Xavier's muffled voice filtering through the walls.

Despair curdles my stomach.

God, I'm never going to find what Micah really needs.

That means he'll have to keep plunging along, heading deeper into the danger zone. Whatever it takes to get close enough to the Jacobins for something more than circumstantial. Enough to hold up in court or at least get the Redhaven PD a legal warrant.

Ugh.

Something about that nags me, remembering how Micah never seems to mention any of the other guys on the force knowing about this or helping him.

It just seems off .

Especially when I've known Lucas Graves and Grant Faircross my whole life—or at least, known of them. I wasn't part of their older friend groups growing up, but they always seemed like this shiny thing, always out of reach. People I observed from the outside in my sickly little bubble and desperately wished I could be like when I got older.

But everyone knows the story of Lucas' sister, Celeste Graves.

How she was possibly having an affair with Montero Arrendell, only to disappear the same night Grant's best friend Ethan vanished too.

It turns out, Ethan Sanderson was in love with Celeste and determined to save her from the Arrendell sickness.

Rumors plagued both cops their entire lives, especially when Grant had to defend his friend's honor after people started whispering that maybe a jealous Ethan killed Celeste and then skipped town.

When the truth came out, first as a trickle and then as gushing horror, it never felt like it would stop.

And knowing what we do now, you'd think both Grant and Lucas would be ready to chew their own arms off for a chance to take down the last standing Arrendell brother left in town, and maybe the entire Jacobin clan with him.

So, yeah. It's odd that they're not in the thick of this.

Or maybe I'm making too much of it.

Micah doesn't talk shop with me much.

It's very possible the rest of the force are working other angles and he just hasn't told me. I'm definitely not his police peer, spy girl or not.

More than anything, I'm just useful.

That hurts more than it should.

But I push the thought away and make myself useful right now, glancing at the closed door and listening for Xavier's voice.

I can't make out what he's saying, but his voice isn't changing like he's moving around. He sounds annoyed and distracted. He'll probably be busy for a few more minutes.

That's enough time.

I circle the office, scanning the bookshelves, looking for anything and everything that might look like a ledger, suspicious papers wedged in books.

I pry open an old wood chest. Nothing but pungent cigars lined up neatly in a row.

I rifle through the stacks of unopened mail in his inbox and outbox, but they're all from lawyers, investment firms, normal-looking business stuff.

Considering he was yelling about a boat, I check to see if I can find anything like a shipping manifest, but nope.

Nothing.

There are a few open envelopes on his desk. Only, when I take a careful peek at the contents, one is a tax form for charity donations and the other looks like a phone bill.

…oh, wait.

There are pages of call logs here.

I spread them across the desk with my heart slamming and dig out my phone. I take a quick snapshot of the lists of numbers, call times, inbound or outbound.

A few come out a little blurry with my hands trembling, but I get as much as I can before I stuff them in the envelope, leaving it where I found it.

His file cabinets are locked.

Dammit, of course they are.

But I try his desk drawers, opening one after the next. I don't know what I'm expecting to find.

A convenient plastic baggie of cocaine, right next to that silver dish he had before and a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill?

Way too easy.

It's just pens, letter openers, random odds and ends, and a couple photos of Xavier with his brothers. They're crumpled and stained like they were thrown away and then retrieved. Nothing at all incriminating—

Wait. No.

The bottom drawer.

I instantly regret it.

There's vintage smut. Old nudie magazines and what looks like a buckled leather strap just the right size around for—ahem. Well, I guess I know what he does in his free time here.

I really wish I didn't have that image, Xavier choking himself with that strap and masturbating furiously.

But tossed in there on top of what look like more ropes and chains and harnesses, there's something else.

A digital camera—just what Micah was looking for.

I try not to get too excited.

A lot of people still use digital cameras instead of their phones for photos. Maybe Xavier likes taking nature shots and it's got nothing to do with the dead hiker.

I should leave it.

I'll look really silly if I snatch it and it turns out it's full of Xavier's nudes while some supermodel leads him around on a leash, and then I'll have to figure out how to give it back to him without getting groped or something.

But there's also a strap attached to it.

Just inside the curve, I can make out a faded label.

PROPERTY OF brI

Holy shit.

I can't see the rest.

But I know Xavier doesn't start with B - R - I .

Wasn't the hiker's name Brian?

My heart lurches.

My gut clenches.

I glance at the wall between the office and the conference room, then glance around quickly for something—anything— the Kleenex dispenser on the desk !

I hold the tissues like a shield so I can snag the camera by the strap without leaving any fingerprints. Gingerly, I lift it out.

It takes a few awkward fumbles, but I manage to flip my bag open and lower the camera inside without letting it touch my skin.

Just in time for the door latch to click.

My heart—oh my God, every organ in my body—leaps right out of my chest.

Good thing I have fast reflexes.

I knock the drawer shut with my knee before I freeze up.

The flap on my bag gives in to gravity and oh God, oh God , there's a little loop of the camera strap sticking out. I hope the flap covers it.

I don't dare look down and check because—

Here comes trouble.

Xavier Arrendell strides in with a scowl on his face, his lips drawn tight, his normally pale cheeks flushed with anger.

He doesn't look as sickly and tired as he normally does.

Those hard tracks of addiction aren't as deep today in the stark lines of his face and the shadows under his eyes.

I wonder if he lays off his habit when there's serious business? Or maybe, that little bit of human empathy I cling to whispers, he's trying to kick it and go clean.

There I go again, having too much sympathy for the monster.

And I feel like that devil can see my sins as he stops mid-stride in the middle of closing the door and gives me a piercing look.

"Planning to take over my office, Miss Grey?"

Yikes.

It must be obvious I was snooping around when I'm standing behind his desk for no good reason, unless—oh.

Oh, right .

I smile sheepishly, holding up the wad of tissues still crumpled in my hand.

"Sorry! These spring allergies are killing me." I make a big show of pressing the tissues to my nose and blowing until my eyes hurt.

"I see."

I can't read his expression as he watches me with that lizard-like stare.

Is he suspicious?

Did Joseph slip up and tell him anything?

I try not to let my nerves show as I pointedly blow my nose again, then look around until I find the wastebasket and toss the crumpled tissues in.

Surely, he wouldn't go digging around in the trash to make sure I actually used them, right?

I dust my hands off and circle around the desk, smiling brightly.

"Anyway, are you ready to go over the final details?" I ask brightly.

The way he looks at me makes me feel like I'm caged in with a tiger. But I hold on fast to my smile and wait, wait , just hoping he can't hear my heart pounding.

Xavier stares at me, then sighs.

"Of course. My apologies for keeping you waiting." He pulls the door open again and steps into the hall. "We'll discuss this in the tea room. I'm sure Joseph will be happy to bring you something for your affliction."

My affliction.

I just love how he makes it sound like something far worse than a little hay fever.

As I follow him into the hall, I just hope I can get back to Micah before Xavier realizes that camera is missing.

Ideally, before all hell breaks loose.