4. Darkest Light （Micah）

4

DARKEST LIGHT (MICAH)

T alia damn Grey.

I roll the name on my tongue silently as I follow her back to Red Grounds. I'm watching her closely, making sure she's steady, I tell myself.

Making sure she's not downplaying any injuries worse than she cares to admit.

Seems like her pantyhose took more of a beating than she did, thankfully. There's a long rip in the sheer material, stretching from her ankle to the hem of her skirt, baring a strip of pale freckle-dotted skin.

I shouldn't fucking notice that.

I only glance for medical reasons.

Medical. Reasons.

Good thing she's walking steadily enough, this slender pink slip of a woman who must get off on looking like strawberry shortcake.

The girl has a quick stride like a doe. She almost trips when she gets to the mess of coffee and empty cups I left splattered on the sidewalk.

Her pretty face contorts.

I ignore it like I'm not the clown who put it there.

As we near the café, I step around her and pull out one of the elegant wrought-iron chairs at an outdoor table.

"Have a seat. I'll get you something to drink. Water or iced tea?"

After hesitating, she nods, settling slowly into the chair. "Iced tea works. Of course, I'll pay you back."

"You won't."

She stares at me over her shoulder with those big blue eyes, her teeth sinking into one corner of her mouth to plump it to ripeness.

Fuck me, I shouldn't be noticing.

Still, there's something about the way her body language changes when she's close to me. The way she holds herself away so carefully, not quite touching me and yet seeming so painfully aware of my nearness.

It makes the need to get away from her palpable.

Ideally, before I start noticing even more.

Distractions from work are the last thing I need.

Especially not a sweet young diversion who looks like she'd melt at the slightest touch, vulnerable and completely exposed.

Assuming she wouldn't be brutally scandalized by me thinking about her that way, that is.

Once she's settled, I duck inside the café, letting the scent of fresh grounds chase her smell out of my nose.

Vanilla.

Rich vanilla beans with a cinnamon undercurrent. That's what she smells like, airy and sweet with a subtle bite.

There's something seriously wrong with me today.

I swear, I don't normally do this.

A woman collapses on the street with a medical emergency, and my reaction is to want to taste just how breakable she could be.

Maybe I really am my bastard of a father's son after all. The crows always come to remind me, just like the ones I glimpsed a few minutes ago.

My old man just wore his cruelty on the surface while I bury mine deeper.

Just like I bury it now, under the surface of Officer Friendly as I put in a fresh order for the team and grab a sweetened iced tea for Talia Grey. I slip a little extra— fine, a lot extra —into the tip jar for the mess I left outside. The barista already gave me an awkward look, but I guess I've earned my place in Redhaven when I don't get a snarky comment to go with it.

When I head back out, Miss Grey's perched in her chair, looking in her compact mirror and wiping at her smudged mascara.

She's managed to pat her mussed-up hair back into place, though it's still a little wild.

The look suits her. She's an ivory candle with a crown of fire.

As I approach the table, she glances up and offers me a worn smile.

"Thanks," she says as I set the tea down in front of her.

"It's nothing." I take the chair across from her, setting the cupholder down and fishing out my own coffee to take a sip. "How are you feeling?"

"Embarrassed, mostly." Biting her lip, she closes her compact and tucks it into her purse. "I can't believe I passed out like that in the middle of town."

"No need to be embarrassed. The crowd was concerned about you."

"Well, yeah, but it's still embarrassing, you know? Like if I'm going to collapse into an asthma attack, I'd prefer to do it in the privacy of my own home." Her lips quirk. "I usually manage them better."

"This is a regular thing for you?" I ask again, sipping my coffee.

"Not as much lately." Miss Grey shrugs, glancing away, her fingers tangling in her hair and twining a lock of it slowly. "I was sick all the time when I was little. I could barely get up a flight of stairs without collapsing, and I was always in and out of the hospital. I've gotten a lot stronger, though. I'm normally pretty good at controlling my breathing before anything severe hits, but this time…"

She trails off.

She looks so uncomfortable I cock my head, studying the way the light falls over her jawline until it's almost transparent. Her skin is so fine.

"This time?"

"I was a little off my game today, I guess." Her eyes fall. She won't look at me. "I should've been able to handle it better."

I'm not sure how to respond.

It's not my job to console her, and it would be crossing a professional line to try—just as much as it would be to give in to the urge to reach out and touch her pale skin, watching the color bloom under my fingers when she's just so delicate.

So frail, and I don't just mean her body, her lungs.

Even if it must have taken incredible willpower to master her asthma, there's something about her.

Something that would be so easy to destroy.

Deep down, I can't decide if I want to shield it or take her in hand and watch her struggle.

Obviously, I can't do either.

I also can't seem to look away, and the longer I watch her, the more she fidgets in her chair, darting quick glances at me. Her cheeks are cherry blossoms now.

She snatches her drink, the ice rattling against the plastic cup and the tea sloshing as she fits the straw between her lips, pursing them like a kiss to take a drink.

Damn.

That gleam on her lips steals my glance before I shift back to her wide, questioning eyes before she looks away.

Why are you staring, Officer?

That's what she's asking.

I can't help answering the unspoken question. "Am I making you uncomfortable, Miss Grey?"

Her shoulders jerk sharply as she sets her cup down. She might as well have said yes .

Her brilliant blue eyes shift to me—but not quite.

My mouth.

Is she staring at my mouth?

Right before her eyes drop back to her drink.

"Oh, I— Um, no. You're just the second person to ask me that today."

Her voice fades into this breathy whisper.

Interesting.

Who was the first person?

"Is it because I gave you mouth-to-mouth?" I ask. That must be why she keeps staring at my lips. There's an urge to taunt her, just a little to make that blush deeper, to watch her flutter and tremble, but I hold myself back, remembering my role. "It wasn't personal. I had to make sure you were stabilized."

She doesn't answer, not at first.

Not until she lets out the smallest murmur, still looking down.

"…your teeth are really sharp."

If I was a laughing sort of man, I'd bust a fucking seam.

"Yes. That." I wasn't expecting that answer, though I'm not surprised by it, either. I lean back in my chair with a sigh and take another sip of coffee. "Albinism usually comes with other abnormalities," I say bluntly.

I hate this shit, even if she deserves an answer.

I have too much pride to talk about my condition like I'm ashamed of it.

If I speak about it matter-of-factly, others tend to respond in kind, instead of treating me like I'm a freak or like I'll turn to ash in direct sunlight. I fix my gaze on her intently, tapping my fingers against the side of my cup before I continue.

"Unnaturally long canine teeth. Poor vision. Circulation issues. Skin cancer. Sunburns. General light sensitivity. Bruising. Blood disorders. The list is a mile long." I shrug. "I wound up with vision, teeth, light sensitivity, and bruising on my bingo card." I tap my right eyebrow. "Lasik. Contact lenses. Light therapy. Avoiding coffee tables with sharp corners. Though I've considered filing my teeth down." I quirk a brow. "Biting my tongue hurts like a bitch."

She's been listening intently, watching me with that wide-eyed, curious gaze, and no judgment.

That's new.

No judgment. No pity. No awful sympathy at how bad it must be to be me.

Then again, I suppose she'd know, wouldn't she?

The way people look at you when they think you're just a walking corpse that hasn't figured out it could die at any minute.

But when she blinks and gives me a delayed laugh, it's a whisper. Barely there.

It lights up her face with a flushed sweetness and makes her eyes glitter above the slim hand she brings up to cover her mouth. I cock my head, watching her.

"There you go. Laughter suits you better." I choose my words carefully.

She instantly squeaks, her laughter fading. Her knuckles press against her mouth, her cheeks flushing again.

It's too damn easy to tease reactions out of her.

She's like a musical instrument.

I have to remind myself not to and instead refocus on her condition.

"It sounds like your asthma attacks are triggered by stress now. Did something trigger this one, Miss Grey?"

" Tal-ia ," she corrects sharply.

I expected that.

Then her nervous fingers are in her hair again, separating a lock of crimson like she always needs to keep her hands busy.

"I had a big meeting with a new client. A really wealthy client for a huge long-term project. I made it through the meeting okay, but the whole thing was really unsettling… all the panic came bubbling up, I suppose. The long walk didn't help. I don't even know if we're going to take them on, but I was scared I screwed everything up."

As she speaks, her gaze drifts past me, fixing on something far away. I glance over my shoulder and instantly realize what she's looking at.

That giant house on the hill, casting its long shadow over the town like a phantom.

Now I know the client she means.

Not that it was a big secret when we've only got one wealthy family around these parts.

My interest sharpens. I look back to Talia.

"You met with the Arrendells?"

"Arrendell. Singular," she says. "It was just Xavier. He said his parents are out of town, grieving in Italy or something."

Interesting.

Suddenly, every prickling awareness of her attractiveness, her vulnerability, becomes secondary to a different urgency inside me. It's almost catching a scent that tells me my prey is near, if I'll only follow the lead.

Could this be an opportunity?

And could it end with closing in for the kill? Taking out all the hatred I've nursed for years on Xavier Arrendell's all-too-tender pampered flesh.

I've thought long and hard about killing that fuck.

In my mind, I already know the smell of his blood, the sound of his pain.

Even though I know it's not right—I know I shouldn't want it, I know I have to uphold the law—I can't stop.

I can't halt the dreams where I watch the light fade from his eyes like a candle sputtering out.

The same way it did from my brother's.

I keep my composure, though. No point in scaring her now.

"What did he ask you to do?"

"Um, only redecorate the entire huge-ass manor." She blanches and takes another quick sip of her tea. "Really crazy. We're talking new handcrafted furniture in every room and he wants a whole new interior design on top of it. I don't even do much interior design. That's not really our thing, but… I guess I'll learn. Whatever I can with a good contractor."

"So you're taking the job?" It comes out too fast.

Something strange passes over her face.

"Well, yeah. I think. We do need the work. I have to throw together a quote, but it's going to be amazing money. It could keep us sitting nice for years."

Then why does her smile look so pained at the windfall?

There's something weird there.

Something odd.

Something hurting her, tied to this job.

"Miss Grey, do you not want to work for Xavier Arrendell?"

No smile now. Her lips crease bitterly, but they're trembling and she won't look at me.

"It's not my business, I know," I tell her. "If I'm getting too nosy, go ahead and tell me to—"

"I'll answer that if you can remember my name." She cuts me off.

"Talia," I say softly, and this time she almost flinches.

Lowering her eyes, she compresses her lips, rubbing the tip of the straw along the crease of her mouth.

"I don't know. Something about him makes me uncomfortable. But maybe it's just all the rumors swirling around his family and bad vibes and I'm just overreacting. Being around him makes me feel…" She pauses. "…unsafe, I guess. But we do need the money. Desperately."

I want to reach for her hand. Hold it. Grip it until her fingers stop shaking so much they rattle the ice in her cup.

It's not my place.

And if she knew me—the real me—she might feel less safe with me as she does with Xavier.

"Is your business struggling, Miss—Talia?" I ask, probing carefully.

"No, it's fine." She shakes her head, crimson curls swaying against her jaw and shoulders. "It's just, everything costs so much these days. Sometimes things you really need."

She's being vague.

It's damn sure not my business, and I sense it'd hurt her to pry.

This is the first time we've been more than two strangers passing on the street, not even meriting a second glance. The first time we've ever spoken.

So I'll mind my manners.

But I may need her to help me mind someone else's, too.

Leaning forward, I brace my arms on the table.

"What if I could give you a better reason to take the job?" I ask, dropping my voice to a whisper. "Would that make it easier if it was worth more than money?"

Talia's brows wrinkle.

She throws back such innocent confusion that the guilt punches me, but I started this and now I've got to finish it.

"What… what do you mean?"

Leaning back, I glance around the morning-lit street.

People are scattered around us at the café's little outdoor tables. Others pass by now and then, strolling and not really paying attention as they bustle between shopping and errands. Though there are a few curious glances that make it clear some of the town's gossipier citizens wonder what the oddball cop and the furniture store girl are doing together.

"Not here," I mutter. "Would you be willing to meet me again tonight?"

"Tonight? Uh, what? Officer Ainsley, what are you asking?" She stares at me, flushed and stammering.

"Not what you think, I promise." Not that I wouldn't goddamn mind, but I keep my eyes firmly on her face, ignoring how her flustered look heats my blood. "I need to tell you some things about Xavier Arrendell. I'd also like to ask for your help."

"Help? Oh," she whispers, pinching her fingers against her straw. "You mean like… something you can't tell me here?"

"It's not the sort of thing you talk about in public, no. Take that into consideration before you decide if you'll meet with me."

That's my cue to go.

While she goes ash-white, staring at me wordlessly, I push my chair back and stand. Her head tilts back to follow me.

"I've got to get to work," I say, pushing my empty chair back in. "Try to stay awake for the next twelve hours. If you feel dizzy, suffer any hearing loss, ringing ears, blurred vision, call 9-1-1 immediately." I flick my gaze over her.

She looks fine, like she never even fell.

The only signs are the rips in her pantyhose and a few scuffs on her pink dress, but head injuries can be serious. That seems to jolt her out of her daze.

"I told you I didn't hit my head." Her voice is small yet composed. "I really am an old hand at controlled falls."

"Your phone number?" I ask.

There it is again. That blush that makes her so bright, so vulnerable. Her fingers jerk against her cup, making it shake loudly.

"…number? Why?"

"So I can check on you. Make sure you didn't give yourself a concussion," I say. "And so I can text you where to meet, if you're game."

"Oh. Okay."

It's too long before she moves, before she mumbles something incoherent and thumps her cup down on the table so she can bend over and rummage around in her purse.

She comes up with a business card reading A Touch of Grey. Her name is on it—Talia Grey, Store Manager—plus two phone numbers, one labeled (O) for office and one labeled (C) for cell.

"That's my personal cell," she says quietly, reminding me how small Redhaven really is, where people still have paper business cards and put their personal numbers on them. "Just tell me where. I'm free tonight, so I'll think about it."

"I appreciate you, Miss Grey."

"Dude. Talia," she snaps, almost on autopilot. I bite back a smile.

No, I still don't say it.

I just touch two fingers to my temple, nod, and scoop up my crew's drinks to make the rest of the walk to work.

Her eyes trail after me like a lost puppy, watching me the whole way.

My house doesn't fit into Redhaven any more than I do.

It's been a long damn day.

The Jacobins' pigs got loose again, and at this point I wonder if they're doing it on purpose just to keep us tied up while they're moving their mobile moonshine stills around, always one step ahead of us.

There were more hogs than usual this time. Took us all evening to round them up.

I'll admit I was distracted and screwed up a few times—and nearly got trampled under several hundred pounds of hooves for my trouble.

I also came about three inches short of letting one of the biggest sows plow right into the A Touch of Grey delivery truck as it trundled past, dragging behind a tow truck from Mort's garage.

If the Houdini pigs are a ruse, they're effective as hell.

I'm almost too exhausted to do my usual stakeouts tonight, watching to see if they're cooking up more than moonshine.

I also have more on my plate than watching the hillfolk and waiting for them to slip up this evening. Looking for a boost, I settle behind the built-in bar in my basement, relaxing while I mix up a cocktail or two.

You can tell the vacation homes built by out-of-towners from the original colonial architecture of a historic town. This house is rustic enough, a rugged sprawling ranch house in raw timber wood. All log cabin on the outside and cosmopolitan black leather, stone, and dark brushed steel on the inside.

I bought it for a song when I first moved here from a wealthy investor who thought Redhaven might be good for some real estate speculation, only to realize it's only interesting to hikers and people who really love hand-tapped maple syrup, true crime podcasts, and small-town crafts.

I'm sure it's not the only house with a fancy built-in bar, but it's probably the only one owned by a former bartender.

Whipping up an espresso martini feels strangely comforting.

Not really a martini at all by proper definition. More like a cocktail that involves a lot of vodka.

A little Stoli Elit, some flavored syrup, concentrated espresso, and coffee liqueur.

Then, because I like my martinis the same way I like my coffee, I add some Irish crème.

It's soothing, falling into routine pours, mixing, both hands working with years of practice.

Once upon a time, I paid my way through college slinging drinks.

It's been more than a decade since, but at thirty-five, I can still mix up a pretty mean cocktail.

It honestly doesn't take long enough.

There's too much shit on my mind.

Too much to tame in ninety seconds of mix and pour.

The taste, at least, is enough to chase away a few brooding thoughts as I settle into a deep-set chair next to the crackling fireplace, slouching down against the leather.

Not bad.

It gets better when my massive German Shepherd perks up from his nap in front of the heat and trots over to lie down at my feet, thrusting his muzzle under my hand. He's so old his fur is greying around his face.

"Hey, Rolf," I murmur against the rim of my martini glass, scratching between his ears. He lets out a satisfied grumble, leaning into my touch and thumping his tail hard against the woven wool rug. "Did the big boy have a good day? Not me, I'm afraid. But I might have a better night."

His only answer is a low whuff !

I set my drink down on the side table and snag my phone, flicking through the texts until I land on the one I sent Talia as I clocked out of work.

Talia, it's Micah Ainsley. Shore of Still Lake. 9:30 pm. Can you be there? Are you still feeling well enough to meet? Mallory didn't report a call, so I'm hoping you made it through the day.

There's no answer.

How can I blame her?

When a stupid cop you've never spoken to in your life rescues you from a public asthma attack, then asks you to meet him over something clearly related to your job with the Arrendells, you don't jump with joy.

I'd be wary, too.

Only, I'm not the one she should be wary of.

Xavier Arrendell and trust don't mix.

I never gave him the benefit of the doubt, even before it started getting weird with vicious secrets dripping out.

The whole family's rotten to the core, and those boys learned it somewhere.

I'm convinced Lucia and Montero Arrendell are fully aware of their sons' twisted hobbies. There was Ulysses Arrendell first, ‘claiming' girls and turning into their stalker-slash-suitor, only to strangle them to death and use Culver Jacobin to help hide their bodies.

Then there was Aleksander Arrendell, knowingly manipulating his own secret half sister into an engagement and then trying to murder her. Thankfully, his other half sister intervened with Captain Faircross before he could get that far.

You want to convince me Xavier Arrendell is innocent?

When he was forged in the same crucible of filth?

Guilt by association won't fly in court, no, but I've been watching Xavier since I moved here.

And I'm pretty damned sure he's got plenty of guilt of his own, no association needed.

Except for his association with the case I've been working.

The plague of cocaine sales and addiction-related deaths spreading like weeds up and down the East Coast over the last decade.

The ugly fact that most of the supply can be traced back to a single source.

The killing fact that I found my own brother dead in his apartment, his nostrils still lined with the dust of the last hit he'd ever taken.

Maybe the bad memories just finally crushed Jet in the end.

The fucked up pain of being beaten every day by a father too drunk to realize what he was doing.

Maybe I shouldn't blame the drug supplier.

Maybe I should blame Jet for his choices alone, the wrong ones he made to escape the hellish way we grew up.

But someone tempted him down that path to death.

Someone gave my brother the poison and the habit that killed him.

I can't stand that heartbreak happening to anybody else.

My brother deserves that much.

After the way he'd protect me when we were kids, standing between our father and his furious fists while he snarled at me for being so weak, so scrawny, this bloodless abnormal freak .

It took years to stand on my own, to find my inner strength.

Just like Talia Grey.

Maybe that's why I'm actually feeling guilty as I eye that unanswered text. The double check mark says she left me on Read.

I do hope she's feeling better.

I checked with dispatch for any new medical emergency calls, just in case. It's more likely she doesn't want to get involved with my mess.

Maybe she can sense I'm trouble, and she's right.

I'm asking to drag her into something she should never make her business.

"Am I fucking this up, Rolf?" I scratch under his furry jaw. "She's a nice girl. So innocent. If I ask her to do this, she might lose that. She might walk away tarnished and bitter."

But if I don't, I could lose my best chance to pin down Xavier Arrendell and destroy his greedy ass.

Rolf doesn't have any answers, but his tail thumps harder.

I can't help but smile.

"You're never much for conversation," I whisper, letting him lick my hand. "But you are a good boy."

I start to swap my phone for my drink, but before I can set it down, it vibrates in my hand.

Talia Grey: I'm okay. No concussion or anything. I'll be there.

Damn, now we're talking.

Tonight, at least I can ask if Talia will hear me out.

So I drop my phone on the accent table, toss back my cocktail in a fuming burn of liquor and strong espresso, and stroke Rolf's fur.

"C'mon, old man." I stand to pull his leash down from its hook by the door. "Let's go meet a girl and try not to scare her."