6. Dark Dreams （Micah）

6

DARK DREAMS (MICAH)

S he came.

I won't lie, I didn't expect her to.

Last night, she looked at me like I was the danger.

The one she should be afraid of.

Can she see right through me so easily? I wonder.

Does she know that underneath the calm fa?ade, under the mantra to serve and protect, I'm not a good man?

I tried to be once.

I tried to be better than my father, but since the day Jet died, there's just this slow, deep-rooted poison swirling with black thoughts.

Horrors I'd like to do to Xavier Arrendell.

To Ephraim Jacobin and his rotten fucking clan.

Also, what I think about doing to Talia Grey—very different, very devastating things—as I watch her now.

She's standing on my doorstep under the bright morning sun.

There's a bulging rucksack piled against her back. Her slender shoulders strain, making her chest thrust forward in curving mounds that threaten to burst through her pink plaid flannel.

Danger tits. She just invented them.

And pink again.

Damn if I don't smile.

The shirt looks brand new, still a little stiff despite the way the fabric clings to her—and there's not a single scuff on the dark-brown leather hiking boots she's wearing, laced up tight over the cuffs of dark jeans molded to her shapely legs and vanishing into her scrunched pink and black argyle socks.

Is she already flushed?

A little breathless, perhaps, her coppery-red hair pulled up in a ponytail, minus a few wild strands that billow against her cheeks.

Her eyes are so bright.

So eager.

Even if I never lay a hand on her, fuck, I'm going to defile this young woman's innocence no matter what I do.

One more reason why I'm a terrible person.

The more I think about how wrong it would be, the more I want it.

I screw my mind back in place, though, giving her another once-over.

"Did you buy out the entire sporting goods store?" I ask dryly, and her flush deepens. I can't help wondering if she blushes so easily all the time, or if it's something unique about me—the way I clearly twist her up.

Yeah.

Bad fucking man.

Because that just makes me want to pin her up against a wall and find out how red I can make her, how I can make her tremble, and if that flustered look could ever be something else.

I don't know why vulnerability turns my crank.

Maybe because I was made to feel helpless my entire young life, and now there's something darkly satisfying about turning it back on someone else.

About being the one in charge.

About holding her pleasure and her fate together in the same iron fist.

Fuck, I definitely need to get this over with and forget all about wondering if Talia Grey's thighs quiver the same way her lips do.

Those lips move now, reminding me I need to process normal words instead of my own deviant thoughts. Especially with the way she's scuffing her feet and toying with the adjustable sections of her backpack straps, twining the black nylon around her fingers, blissfully unaware of my filthy thoughts.

"Fair warning, I've never been camping," she starts sheepishly. "I thought it'd be better to overpack a bit."

"Never?"

Talia averts her eyes.

"…I know. It's weird, living here and never doing it when it's like the only thing to do for fun. But yeah."

There's an awkward silence.

I think I get what she means, but I won't embarrass her more by pushing about it.

"Give me a minute," I say. "Let me grab my gear and put Rolf in his harness, and then we can sort your bag and head out."

"What do we need to sort?"

"Emptying it out, first," I answer. "Even I wouldn't want to haul that around in the hills for hours, and we're going to be climbing for a while. It's just one night, Miss Grey. Considering the weather, we'd be fine with a couple canteens, a sleeping bag, and a fire."

"…oh. Okay. I feel dumb now."

"Don't," I throw back. "Your head was in the right place. Be right back."

I step back and push the door back, leaving it open just enough to not seem rude, but still not inviting entry.

I'm territorial about my space, though it's not just that.

Having a woman here feels too intimate.

Like this is more than me dragging her into my business, if I let her get familiar with my home.

I can't afford that.

Not when I can never predict what might blow my cover and tear the identity of Officer Micah Ainsley into shreds, revealing the truth.

So I leave her standing outside while I snag the smaller backpack I prepped yesterday and sling it over one shoulder, then coax Rolf into his harness. It's designed to make it easier to manage him on steep inclines and help him if he takes a fall.

You don't want to be holding a leash attached to a collar if your dog goes over a ridge. If he were younger, I'd let him just roam free without a harness. But he's fifteen years old now, well past his breed's typical lifespan.

I'm a little overprotective.

For him, I act a little human.

He clings near my leg like he always does as I take his leash and lead him to the door. His tail starts wagging like mad.

He can always tell when we're about to hit the woods for an extended stay, and even as old as he is, he gets all worked up at the thought of chasing squirrels through heaps of dead leaves.

The second I open the door again and see Talia standing there with a confused, slightly hurt look on her face, Rolf's tail stops.

She flashes me an odd look, then looks away, bowing her head and smiling at the dog with one slim hand reaching out.

"Hey, big guy. Ready to give me a second chance?"

Rolf just stares at her, stone-cold and flat.

Talia wilts like the pretty pink flower she is.

"…he really hates me, huh?"

"He hates anyone who steals my attention, Shortcake. It's not personal."

Talia blinks, throwing me a startled look.

I knit my brows.

What?

What did I say?

She looks away again, almost pointedly avoiding eye contact. "So, where should we leave my stuff?"

"Back of my Jeep is fine." I step forward, nudging Rolf with my knee to get him across the threshold. He balks, but then circles around Talia, giving me room to step outside and lock up.

For a second, we're arm to arm, and I can catch her scent—vanilla again. Smells more natural than any lotion, perfume, or other fragrance.

Then she skitters away, stumbling down the concrete front step onto the leaf-littered paved walk. She keeps avoiding eye contact while her thumbs hook in the straps of her rucksack.

I lock the door, then sigh and turn to face her.

"Spill."

"…huh?" Talia's head jerks up. "Spill what?"

"Something's wrong," I say firmly. "You won't look at me. You looked upset when I came back outside."

She winces.

"Oh, no, I—I'm just being a dork…"

"A dork about what?"

"I just wondered if I'm annoying you?" she strains out. "You just shut the door in my face. I mean, and I know we don't even know each other, but—"

"No, I get it. In a town like this, you're used to being invited in for coffee, chatting a little and making niceties before getting down to business," I finish. "Yeah. I know. Guess I never let go of my New York manners. Or the New York need for privacy." I step down onto the walk, coiling Rolf's leash around my fist. "It's mostly for Rolf's sake. At his age, he gets twitchy if there's anyone else's scent in the house."

It's not an outright lie.

He really is a possessive beast.

The guys have tried like hell to make friends and he's just not having it. Lucas Graves must've fed Rolf his weight in sausage several times over.

I've just never let anyone stick around long enough to find out if he could truly get used to them.

"Oh," Talia says, trailing behind me as I head for my Jeep. It's so old it's a miracle it hasn't fallen apart, but these old machines were made to last. I picked it up at a police auction in New York when I was still a rookie, and it's held up forever even though it's so battered it looks like mud was the original paint color.

With an eager whoof, Rolf leaps up into the open back, bouncing and wagging his tail. I scratch his ruff.

"Get down from there. I need the space today." I hold my hand out to Talia. "Show me what's in that sack."

After hesitating, she shimmies the backpack off.

Can't say I mind the show, considering how she squirms. Her tits press against her flannel shirt so hard the buttons are damned near ready to pop.

I get a glimpse of a very thin undershirt and hints of what looks like black lace showing through the thin white fabric.

Damn.

She's a little too distracted to notice me watching, at least, though I enjoy her breathy exertion. Her noises are somewhere between adorable and fucking erotic.

I need to stop being a dick.

So I offer her a little mercy and step closer, circling around her to take the straps in both hands. "Here. Just slide your arms out."

"Y-yeah!" She flicks a nervous glance over her shoulder, then she goes still. It's hard not to bury my face in that cloud of crimson hair and inhale her vanilla scent like it's the air I need. "Sorry I'm so clumsy."

"It's fine. I'll just have to keep an eye on you when we're on the trail."

With a mortified sound, Talia hands over the backpack and steps away.

"You shouldn't have to babysit me, y'know."

"It's hardly babysitting, Talia. It's common sense with new hikers." I pretend to let my arms dip with the hefty weight of the bag. That earns me an almost grateful smile. "Everyone starts off as a beginner, and it's better if you're out there with an experienced hiker. You'd be surprised what you can stumble over on a calm day."

"Like what? Something dangerous?" She watches me intently.

I heft the rucksack into the back of the Jeep for support. Rolf sniffs it curiously while I unzip it.

The tight-packed supplies explode out like I've just pulled the string on a party popper.

Talia shares an amused look before we start sorting everything, digging out plastic cups and a rappelling harness kit. I toss them freely into the cargo area, ignoring that sudden ache in my cock.

I could think of a few interesting uses for those ropes, but we shouldn't be hitting any trails that need us tied together.

Mind out of the gutter, Ainsley. Right now.

The deprivation must be getting to me.

I haven't had a woman since New York. Carina—some six years ago.

My last serious relationship, broken off years before I packed up for Redhaven. I'm not sure if I loved her.

I know she loved me, but she always said there was something unreachable about me. Something that scared her.

I never understood that, not when I was careful with her—always gentle, always putting her needs first, always holding back that part of me that wanted to leave red marks on her skin, that wanted to hold her down and make her thrash and beg.

I did everything I could to be safe for her—and I still frightened her.

No question, I'd scare the shit out of Talia, too.

That's why I've kept myself in check since coming to this little town. With how brutal small-town gossip can be, all it would take is one misplaced hickey and everyone would start whispering.

Worse than when I first moved here and every single woman wanted to find out if my dick was as pale as the rest of me.

Talia's still watching, waiting for me to explain.

I leave a few things like bundled-up snacks in the sack and wrestle with a bulging pack of space blankets, crinkling them noisily the whole time.

Really, woman?

She grins nervously.

I hold it up with a raised brow before tossing it aside. With a self-deprecating giggle, she glances away.

"What? I heard you can make tents out of them if there's a real emergency."

"Except we have tents, so we don't need them."

Shaking my head, I break the pack open and fish out five of the folded blankets, a small concession to their potential usefulness, and tuck them back into her pack.

I immediately pitch a box of cheap-looking hunting knives, still wrapped in the store plastic. They look like the kind of novelty things where the blade would break off the hilt with any pressure and probably leave a nasty cut behind.

"As far as dangerous goes, we won't be taking on any particularly steep trails, but even experienced hikers still slip and fall," I say. "Ravines can pop up out of nowhere when it's this overgrown. You think you're going through a break in the brush, and suddenly the earth is gone and your ass is bouncing down a rocky grade. Gopher holes, tree roots, buried rocks, they're all waiting to snap your ankle. Then there's the wildlife. North Carolina has cottonmouths, diamondbacks, copperheads, and they don't take too kindly to being stepped on if they're hiding under the leaves. Mountain lions. Coyotes. Plus, the simple risk of getting lost. You think you're navigating by the sun and you know the way home. The next thing you know, you're turned around and it's night, it's getting cold faster than you'd like, and you're fatigued and low on water with no damn clue where the closest creek is. And that's just the natural dangers, mind you. You know as well as I do that stumbling on the Jacobins without warning is a good way to get a face full of buckshot."

Her eyes are saucers.

I'm pretty sure she's stopped breathing.

"So hiking alone is always a bad idea, even when you're good at it?" She swallows. "You sure know a lot about the woods for someone who just moved here."

"I've been around long enough, but I guess a few years still counts as being new in a place like this—and what is this?" Frowning, I tug on a vacuum-packed bag wrapped tight around something rectangular and heavy as hell. It won't come out, and I wiggle it, giving it another yank.

The clothes she packed underneath it go flying as I yank the bag free.

T-shirts, jeans, a thick parka, and some very interesting lacy things sail through the air while I stare at the label on the bag. It's dense-packed cubes of instant high-protein survival food, the kind of stuff you'd find in a doomsday prepper's bunker—and probably enough to feed five people for a week.

I'm about to ask Talia a smartass question, but she lets out a strangled sound and darts past, grabbing at a pair of panties made of the most translucent, sheer pink net I've ever seen, with delicately embroidered lace edging.

The bra matches. So do the stockings when they vanish into her clutched fists, so flimsy they disappear into nothing past her fingers.

I'm not fucking breathing anymore.

I'm trying not to stare.

But goddamn, you mean to tell me that's the underwear she packed for a camping trip?

That's her style?

Makes me wonder what I glimpsed past her flannel and what other little secrets this shy girl keeps locked up. If there's more fire under her fluttering and nervousness than I realized.

Not your business, man. Focus on the mission.

Not on the drumming in my pulse and the reckless throb of my cock taking an interest in things I've got no right to.

Outwardly, I'm a perfect gentleman, averting my eyes from her brilliantly red face while I unzip one of the side pouches on the bag and hold it open for her.

Her fingers brush mine, all warmth and softness, as she stuffs her garments inside, fumbling my hand aside so she can zip up.

After the soft rasp of the zipper stops, she pulls back, her warmth leaving my side while she mumbles, "…sorry. You didn't have to see that."

"Didn't see a thing," I growl. "Nothing besides this thirty-pack of D batteries." I heft the big brick of boxed batteries out of the bottom, followed by a six-pack of flashlights. "You had the right idea. You just overpacked."

"I just kept thinking, what if we lost things? What if we needed backups?"

"Miss Talia, with everything in your pack, if you lost one thing, you'd lose everything, so having this many spares wouldn't do you much good. Better to lighten the load." I toss two of the flashlights back on top of her folded clothes, then steal one of the battery packs from inside the box. I pick up the parka, too, twisting my lips. "You don't have a thinner jacket?"

"At home?" she offers. "I just thought—you know…"

"Hypothermia," I guess. "This time of year, it's not a big concern unless you fall down in a river after dark." I start to toss the parka back down—then stop and hold it out to Rolf, letting him sniff. "Here, boy. Get used to her."

Rolf prods his nose at the parka.

He snorts and shakes his head roughly before backing up to settle on his haunches, giving me a disgusted look.

Talia lets out a disappointed laugh. "He's never going to like me, is he?"

"Give him time. He's more used to guys and cops, not…"

I stop, frowning.

How the fuck do I even describe her without giving away the flame in my blood?

There's a soft twinkle in her eyes as she cocks her head at me.

"Not…?" A little smile plays about her lips. "What am I, Micah?"

"Difficult," I snarl, shaking my head. I drop the parka again and deflect. "Just a second. I'll get you one of my jackets."

I duck inside, leaving her with Rolf, and quickly head to my bedroom to rummage in my closet. I'm not some wide tank like a few of my coworkers, but I'm tall enough that my jackets will hang down to her knees. Even so, it's fine. If she needs protection against the cold, more coverage is better than less, even if a parka is a bit much.

I pull down a battered dark-grey military-style jacket with a warm inner lining, drape it over my arm, and head back outside.

Talia leans on the back of the Jeep, offering a hand to Rolf with a piece of beef jerky broken off from one of the snack packs. He delicately sniffs it and I stop, holding still, not wanting to ruin the moment when food softens his defenses.

Unlike with Lieutenant Graves, he's taking a slower interest in her meat offering.

A second later, he rewards her by nipping the bite out of her hand, his tongue flicking lightly against her fingers.

"He took it!"

She pumps her fist, letting out a squeak and turning to look at me.

"The way to a dog's heart and also a man's, or so they say." I step closer, offering her the jacket. "Here. Now take at least half those water bottles out of the bottom of your bag, zip up, and let's get moving. Daylight's wasting."

She takes my jacket and curls it against her chest, just holding it, before she nods and folds it into the bottom of her rucksack. She digs out a half dozen water bottles next—she had almost a half a case in there—and drops them into the Jeep before she hoists it up.

"Oh, wow, that's way lighter now."

"You'll still be feeling it by the time we break for lunch, believe me. Let me know if it gets to be too much." I tighten the straps on my own bag, adjusting the fit around my shoulders. I watch as she tries to fling her bag on, fiddling with the adjustable bits. "Let me."

"You make me feel so helpless." She almost pouts before edging closer.

"You're not helpless." If anything, I'm the asshole who feels helpless right now, unable to stop the sharp tug of desire that bolts through me as I pull at the straps. My knuckles graze her arms, her shoulders, almost touching the sides of her breasts before pulling back like she'll set me on fire. "You're learning. There's a difference. And you packed smart. You just overdid it. Notice I didn't toss out the compass, sleeping bag, first aid kit, or spare clothing. Your head was in the right place."

There's also the clear outline of multiple inhalers and the rattle of pills from one of the interior zipper pouches.

I'm not going to point them out. I won't embarrass her.

For some things, there's no such thing as being overprepared.

When I finally step back, I realize she's giving me another odd look.

Not that trembling, scared look. This is more measured, that enigmatic little smile on her lips again.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing." Talia shakes her head, rolling her shoulders and settling the straps with her thumbs, still smiling. "You're just not like I expected before we met."

"You had expectations? Before I gave you mouth-to-mouth?"

Gasping, she clamps her lips together, then lets out a loud laugh, shaking her head.

"Not like that. It's just… you know. You hear things. Antisocial big-city guy, nice enough but everything slides off you like glass. No one really knows you, and around here that gets people talking . Rumors that you're a serial killer or you're in witness protection or something. I guess I was expecting you'd be—I don't know—colder?"

Fuck.

Maybe I haven't been as subtle as I thought in keeping people at a careful distance.

Still.

It's all just dumbass rumors, even if they're brushing the truth.

I shrug and lean over the back of the Jeep to coax Rolf down again. He can make the jump up, but the landing can hurt his joints.

"I don't see how I'm not cold," I mutter.

"I don't mean you're soft. Or warm. Or even approachable—"

"Thanks," I bite off.

"Sorry! This is coming out wrong. Like, it's not about what you say or how you say it," Talia points out. "It's about what you do. And what you've done so far is save me from an asthma attack, and now you're saving me from breaking my back with this pack, and you're worried about my safety. That's enough to tell me you're a pretty good guy, and that's all that really matters."

I stop cold, looking over my shoulder at her for too long, my heart thumping.

How na?ve is this girl?

So bright, so sweet, so prone to seeing the best in someone just from a little commonsense preparedness and the fact that the other morning I was doing my job as a cop.

I get the same weird sensation on the back of my neck that I always do before I look up and see them on the tree outside my house. Two of them today, both crows I'm sure I've seen a hundred times.

Do you remember why you ended up in law enforcement, Micah?

Do you remember that once you wanted to be better?

Yeah, once.

Before you died, Jet.

Before I had nothing left in my unhappy life but hunting down the men most responsible for that.

The small-time dealer who sold him his stash is already in jail. I almost lost my job over that bust. Fucker shot at me and missed my throat by inches. I kneecapped him and broke both his legs.

He lived.

He's lucky I let him have that much.

I'm not asshole enough to abuse my authority to murder a small-timer. Not when it was far more satisfying to deliver him into a lengthy prison sentence—and in exchange for reduced sentencing, that small-timer was happy to start blabbing.

Insane stuff at first. Yet as I started tracing leads and following the trail, they all pointed to Redhaven. It all started making sense.

The rot here really does run deep, right to the soil and soul.

I tear my gaze away from Talia's sweet blue eyes.

If I'm not careful, she'll wind up just as blood-soaked as the rest of this accursed place.

The damn crows are still staring with their black button eyes.

You're putting her in harm's way, asshole.

Is that what you want?

I grit my teeth. This isn't the time to bark back at them like I do some days and leave Talia wondering how sane I really am.

I know crows don't really talk. They don't telepathically beam my dead brother's accusations into my mind or whatever.

It's all in my head. My own conscience, plus a dash of natural weirdness when it feels like the birds follow me around.

Too bad my conscience gets annoyingly loud at times. I remind myself that Talia would be interacting with Xavier without my involvement.

Then I tell my conscience to shut the fuck up entirely.

"It's just common sense," I say as I help Rolf down. "C'mon. It's not that long a hike, but we want to be settled before sundown. Let's move."

As I nudge my dog down the walk, Talia scampers to catch up with me, watching me like a small animal that doesn't have the good sense to be afraid of a wolf.

"Why sundown?" she asks.

"Nightfall. That's when the Jacobins swing into gear," I tell her. "We want to be concealed and silent before they show up."

She's suddenly much quieter.

"Oh," she whispers.

Yeah.

Oh .

With nothing else to say, I lead her off the path and into the woods bordering my property. Rolf's collar jingles as he leads the way.

Without Talia noticing, I move a hand behind my back and flip off the crows.

I wasn't expecting this to turn into a field trip.

Normally, it's purely tactical when I'm out here alone.

Scout out where the Jacobins have set up shop, find a good vantage point, and settle in out of sight. I enjoy the activity, and Rolf loves the chance to scamper through the leaves before quiet time.

I've gotten so used to our routine that I rarely stop to notice the beauty of the North Carolina forest.

Talia Grey seems determined to notice nothing else.

Breathless and sparkly-eyed, she has as much curiosity as Rolf, wandering off the barely visible trail to gush over a field of peonies buzzing with fat bees. Or stopping to stare at a massive canopy of spiderwebs arching over the path, dozens of spiders building it communally between the trees and filtering the light into misty veils.

Everything leaves this woman endlessly fascinated, from the redheaded woodpecker hammering away, to a tiny spring erupting between stones, to the way the trees form a canopy spinning sunlight into glitter.

Now and then she'll pluck a plant and come tumbling up to me, asking me what it is.

Wood anemones, maidenhair ferns, swamp milkweeds.

She seems as amazed by them as she is by the fact that I know them on sight.

Good thing I made a point of learning the local vegetation in case anything happened to me out here alone and I had to rely on herbs for medicine.

Around noon, I catch her just before she reaches for a patch of leafy doom.

"Not that," I say sharply. She freezes, still reaching for the three-lobed leaves. "Not unless you want rashes for days in places you never want to itch."

"Oops!" She backs away guiltily. "What is it?"

"Poison oak." I point at a break in the trees, just past the poison oak patch. "Head through there. There's a creek coming up on the map. We'll break for lunch."

"Oh, thank God. My calves are killing me." But she laughs as she says it.

I wonder if she remembers why we're even out here.

I don't have the heart to remind her.

She nearly dances through the trees, whirling around the poison oak and disappearing from sight.

I speed after her, slipping through the hanging branches with Rolf. We step out into the sunlight on a narrow open valley cut through the forest, right where a creek—barely five feet wide—runs through it with a narrow dirt shore on both sides.

Talia's already halfway down on the shore, following the slow-moving water. She stretches her arms over her head before she turns to me with a sunny smile.

"Here?" she calls up—then stops, clapping her hands over her mouth, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. "Wait… do I need to be quiet?"

Damn her.

My mouth twitches.

How is it she takes everything so seriously, yet at the same time never quite seriously enough?

"Not yet. As long as there's daylight, we're ordinary hikers." I make my way down the slope toward her, unclipping Rolf's leash from his harness before lightly slapping his flank. "Go on, big boy. Have some fun."

With a joyful bark, he leaps toward the creek with the energy of a pup half his age and goes splashing into the shallows—to the dismay of several frogs sunning themselves on the stones. They plunge underwater in a croaking panic.

Talia laughs with delight.

"He likes playing in the water, huh?"

"More than a steak." I unsling my pack and set it down on a large log. "Go ahead and set your stuff down. I'll show you how to make a fire."

With an eager sound, she complies.

She's an attentive pupil, I'll give her that, watching me closely as I show her how to pull up grass to make a safe fire circle and how to find good tinder to keep the fire going.

Before long, we've got ourselves a real fire with a teakettle simmering. A pot with some chili and vegetables boils while flatbread toasts on my small foldout grill.

Talia sits across from me on a log, watching the food cook with hungry anticipation.

I try like hell not to stare.

Her hair is autumn fire in the middle of summer, the color of bright leaves.

"You've really never gone camping in your life?" I ask.

Talia jerks her head up at me before looking down.

"Never," she answers. "I don't think I made it clear how sick I was when I was little. I had an oxygen tank on wheels for a little while that I had to take with me everywhere. I insisted on a pink one and covered it with pony stickers." She smiles weakly, fretting her fingers together. "Some kids grow out of asthma. Some just get better. I got better, but by the time I did… I was already so wrapped up in Grandpa and the shop. I never really caught up on the things I missed out on."

"That's rough," I say sincerely.

"I don't regret it. I love him. I love making things with him—and truth be told, he kinda depends on me." She tilts her head back, looking up at the canopy overhead and the sky with sweet wonder. "But it's nice, y'know? To be out here breathing this clean air and smelling how different it is from town. To just run and play and see things that were always too far away before."

And if something happens to her because of you, what happens to that old man? I wonder darkly.

"I'm sorry," I say. "If that was an insensitive question."

I mean it, even if that's not really why I'm apologizing.

She looks at me and her smile strengthens as she shakes her head. "It wasn't. I'm really okay with talking about it. I mean, you get it, right?"

I blink, recoiling a little.

"Yeah, I do." I look away then, staring into the small crackling fire. I prod at it with a stick, sending up a shower of sparks. It's almost uncomfortable to share a confession when it feels like admitting weakness, but some part of me feels like I owe it to her after dragging her into my fuckery. "I didn't exactly grow up like other kids, either. Most kids' idea of ‘playing' with the albino freak was finding out how easy I bruise. If they wanted to know that bad, they could've just asked my old man. I was his favorite canvas."

I freeze.

What the fuck did I just say?

I never say that out loud to anyone.

Not even Carina knew how my dad used to beat me. She only knew I had no interest in introducing her to my family and thought it was a slight against her. I never asked for her sympathy.

I didn't need anyone's useless platitudes.

I don't need Talia's, either.

I definitely don't need her to straighten up and practically yell at my face.

"You're not a freak!" Soft, yet so loud. "You're just you. "

I look up sharply to find her watching me across the fire, her blue eyes almost hard with warm determination. Her mouth is a firm line of lush lips trembling with conviction.

Goddamn.

This girl confuses the hell out of me.

One minute, she's looking at me like I'm a monster. The next, she's running around me like a puppy, pulling me in all directions.

Now, she's looking at me like she sees me.

Not my strangeness.

Not my coldness.

Not the shield that keeps people at a distance.

Me .

And I don't know how the hell I feel about being seen.

I have to break that innocent gaze again, deflecting by standing to take the kettle off the fire and pour water over two waiting cups of tea.

"Can't be anyone else, can I?" I say harshly. "Wouldn't even know how."

That's a lie.

My entire identity in Redhaven is a lie, even if it's mostly a lie of omission when all I do is keep my business to myself and let other folks fill in the blanks.

I wonder how betrayed the guys would feel if they knew the truth.

How betrayed would Talia feel if she knew she's out here with a liar?

It doesn't matter.

I'm not here for lasting relationships or friends. Once I take down Xavier Arrendell and the Jacobins, that's it.

I'll probably pack up for New York or New England.

The thought leaves an odd chasm in my chest that's never been there before.

I hold a steaming mug out to Talia. She tilts her head back, looking up at me, her brightness eclipsed in my shadow falling over her.

It feels a little too heavy.

Without a word, she reaches up to take the mug in both hands. Her slender fingers curl against mine.

For an instant, we're connected.

Our fingers are so close, the heat of the mug fusing us together.

Her skin feels like silk on mine, lingering with a tension so thick you can taste it.

Her heart is in her eyes.

I don't know how to read it or what this feeling is stirring inside me.

I wasn't expecting this shit.

Not when I only just tripped over this girl this past week.

Not when I'm so close to kicking down doors that have been sealed off for years.

I'm this close to the Arrendells' secrets.

Talia's a distraction.

This pure pink doll, just begging to get her dirty.

If I don't keep my mind on track, I'm going to piss away years of work just to have a taste of her.

So the moment I'm certain she's got a proper grip on the mug, I let go and step back, reclaiming my seat on my log.

"Eat up," I say tersely, rummaging in my pack for the small bag of freeze-dried meat kibble I brought for Rolf. He's heading over the second he hears the bag rustle, still shaking himself dry from the water. "We need to get moving again. The site we're staking is still a few more miles upstream."

Talia only answers with a wordless murmur.

Does this crackling energy between us disturb her as much as it does me?

I fold a large green leaf into a makeshift bowl for Rolf and leave him scarfing his kibble while I tuck into my own lunch.

We use the flatbread as pita pockets, pouring the chili and vegetables inside. Easy, quick, and filling.

Though Talia dribbles down her chin every few bites before catching it and wiping her face off, all delicate manners even out here in the wilderness.

I try to keep myself from laughing.

I don't know how any grown-ass woman can be so adorable.

Once we're done, I douse the fire with creek water, then rub Rolf down with a towel from my pack before packing up, clipping his leash back onto his harness, and setting back out.

Talia's quieter as we hit the trail again.

She doesn't seem upset, just thoughtful, looking around and occasionally smiling as she sees a hawk soaring against the sun or turns her head to track a chipmunk bounding through tree roots.

She doesn't complain, not even when I can tell she's starting to get tired. I admit I'm keeping a close eye on her breathing, too, but I don't ask about her asthma.

I know what it's like having people smother you with concern, and I won't do that.

It doesn't seem like it's triggered too much by physical exertion, though. Mostly by distress.

Which just adds another pebble on the scale of guilt for what I could end up putting her through.

She's clearly flagging by the time we reach the campsite I scoped out a few days ago.

Tracking the Jacobins feels like a second job where I moonlight by learning how to find them even when Chief Bowden gets creative with diverting the crew's attention.

You don't have to catch them skulking around in the dead of night. There are little markers that will tell you where they're planning to migrate next.

They'll find a good, discreet spot in the woods, somewhere they can stay deep and hidden. Usually an old logging site with a lot of new growth, easy saplings they can clear.

They'll cut themselves a road or reopen an old logging trail the forest reclaimed.

Not a big road, not something you can see from a hill. More like the kind of thing that you could walk right past five feet away without knowing it's there on the other side of the dense growth.

Here's where they get clever—the trees they fell for that road, they lay down on the path to create a sort of bumpy paving for their trucks. No wheel ruts people can find later.

Once that's done, they'll come swooping in and set up their portable sheds, supposedly with their moonshine stills inside.

They'll hover around in one spot for about a week and disappear again, leaving behind a ghostly patch of cleared earth—hard for anyone to use as evidence when it could just be an area cleared by one of the Arrendell-owned timber companies, a little storm damage, or somebody's weekend retreat.

They know how to make it look innocent.

They know how to disappear.

And I know how to find them, just like now.

I tell Talia to wait for me in a secluded nook in the trees partly down the slope from one of the hills while I take Rolf and climb up for a look, checking the coordinates on my phone.

Right on the money.

The last time I was here, they'd already cleared the brush and saplings.

Now, there it is.

That subtle path cut through the woods, leading north, just wide enough for their trucks and paved with fallen logs stripped of their limbs.

It'll come out about a mile north, I think, on an old farmer's trail, and then another few miles west to the highway. Home free to wherever they want to go next.

If the logs are there, they'll definitely be here tonight.

I climb back down to Talia.

She's puffing a little, sitting on a large mossy rock and sipping from a water bottle.

When I emerge through the trees, she jumps, squealing and splashing water down her front.

"You okay?"

"Y-yeah, you're just really quiet, you know that?" She gives me a wide-eyed look. "I didn't even hear you coming. His collar didn't jingle."

"Force of habit." I unsling my pack and unclip Rolf's leash. "Rest. I'll set up camp."

Talia takes a quick look around the glade.

It's barely ten feet across, an intimate pocket of tall grass and bright sunny buttercups almost walled in on all sides by trees, save for the far side where it ends in a short rock face.

A small spring bubbles out from the rocks in a tiny, clear pool lined with mossy stones. It's the perfect place to set up. Close to the vantage point, yet far enough down the slope and shielded enough so we won't be visible.

"It's pretty here," she says with a small smile. "I like it."

We really are different, aren't we?

I'm thinking purely about the tactical advantage.

Meanwhile, she sees magic everywhere.

Rolf walks over to the tiny pond and plunges his tongue into it, lapping away. I drop to one knee in the center of the clearing and start pulling up grass. Talia stands, coming over and kneeling next to me.

"Let me. You showed me how before." She smiles. "I don't want to be lazy. There's probably other stuff you need to do that I don't know how to help with."

"You sure? You can take a break. I'm used to doing this solo."

"Extra hands make everything faster." She shrugs and starts pulling up brisk handfuls of grass, piling them to the side like I showed her. "I hate being useless, anyway."

You aren't useless , I want to tell her, but I don't think she wants to hear that from me.

So I leave her to it while I work on our tents, pretending I'm not sneaking glances her way.

She's diligent and focused, very serious about her job.

Hell, I feel like I spend half my time around this girl trying not to smile.

I don't want her to think I'm patronizing her.

There's just something about the way she throws herself into the smallest things with an intensity that's too charming.

Now and then, she glances at me like she wonders why I'm watching her.

She probably expects me to avert my eyes and pretend I wasn't.

Most men would.

I hold her gaze while I work, arching a brow.

There's a deep, deep pleasure in watching how her eyes widen when she realizes I'm not feigning any secrecy.

Too fucking fun.

Especially when she blushes every time, fumbles, looks like she's about to stammer something out right before she turns away and hides her face. It happens more than I can count, this shy little song and dance that could go on for hours.

Did I mention I'm not a nice man?

When I get the first tent sorted, it pops up into a full-sized camo-colored dome in my hands, and I have her full attention.

She turns back with a gasp, her arms full of dry branches.

"How'd you do that?"

"Magic. Next, I'll pull a scarf a mile long out of my ear." Smirking, I practically toss the lightweight tent to one side and hold up the other. "It's just a popup tent. They're easy."

"Do it again!" She dumps the wood in the middle of the fire circle.

I can't help it.

A chuckle rips out of me and I'm shaking my head.

"All right, all right. Watch."

I find the wire coils and twist them just right. The flat disc balloons out again into a 3D dome in seconds. Talia belts out pure joy.

"That's so cool ." Then she gives me a shy look through her lashes. "And hey, you laughed."

I snort, moving to set the other tent down with enough space between them for privacy. "Yeah. I do that sometimes."

"Doesn't seem like it happens often," she points out.

"Usually, there's no reason to."

"Why is that?"

I stare at her.

I don't answer.

I don't have one I think she'd want, anyway.

So I just go back to setting up camp.

After another silence, Talia goes back to making those cute sounds of exertion while she works, ripping a few small sap-filled green branches off the trees around us.

I toss her my lighter, and by the time I'm done putting out the rest of our supplies, setting out Rolf's food and water bowls, and spreading my sleeping bag, she's got a good fire going.

When I pull out a long cord strung with over five hundred soda can tabs, though, she looks up from stealing my camp stove and blinks at me.

"What's that for?"

"Security." I start weaving the string through the trees around the clearing at about knee height, a foot out from the inner edge. "If someone gets too close, I'll hear the tabs rattling. It's not so loud that if we accidentally hit it, it'll alert anyone far away to our presence."

She nods briskly, then her face falls.

She's remembered what we're really here for.

And she's much quieter as she finishes setting the fire, putting our dinner on to cook while I line the clearing with the string of tabs.

Sunset comes fast out here in the hills, and by the time we're parked around the fire with bowls of soup and warm bread, it's already getting dark.

The circle of sky over us blooms in pink and purple layers. When was the last time I let myself enjoy a sunset?

Hell, enjoy anything, honestly.

Between police work and private grievances with the Arrendells and looking after Rolf, there hasn't been much time for a life.

Have I become obsessed?

Is there nothing left besides destroying Xavier Arrendell?

I remember having friends in my twenties.

I remember learning how to mix drinks, whipping them up with a flourish and enjoying people's reactions to my concoctions. I was younger then, more innocent, high on escaping from my father and being my own man.

I still had Jet. Not in the way I have him now, watching me from the trees on black wings and driving me madder than Edgar Allan Poe's fictional tortured lover.

So why are you the one who's still alive, Mikey, when you're not really livin' at all?

"Are you okay, Micah?"

I blink, focusing on Talia again.

She's holding her little bowl in both hands, cupping it close to her face and sipping from it. Her eyes are dark with concern.

"Just thinking. Why?" I pin on an artificial smile that feels more like showing the teeth she's so fascinated with.

"I can't explain it. You just seemed kinda sad."

I don't answer.

I just stand and start kicking dirt over the fire, banking it down until it's just embers, low coals glimmering against the darkness, casting us in shadow. There's enough light left to see Talia frowning as she watches me.

"Won't we get cold tonight?"

"That's why we have the tents and sleeping bags."

With the mood I'm in, the reminder that she'll be wrapped up in my jacket doesn't send my mind vaulting down those dark, possessive paths it could easily follow.

She still looks confused, so I clarify, "We don't want any light drawing attention. The trees are good cover, but not perfect. If the Jacobins happen to come through from this direction, the firelight and the scent of smoke could give us away."

Her expression clears.

" Ohhh ." She takes another sip of her soup. "When do they typically show up?"

"Usually around midnight. They like to do their business when the town's asleep." I sink back down on my log and reach for my own soup. "Finish your food and get some sleep until then."

"Fine. But how will we know when to wake up?"

"Trust me, we'll know. "

We finish dinner silently. Every now and then, Talia looks over her shoulder like she's expecting one of the hillfolk to come bursting through the trees, swinging an axe.

I don't blame her.

The locals grew up with all sorts of weird stories about the Jacobins. To half of Redhaven, they're this chainsaw massacre family who love wearing human skin and can be summoned by dark rituals. They make a few bucks off their crops and baked goodies at the farmers' market whenever they're not turning kidnapped children into pies.

The townsfolk don't see them from the outside the way I do.

Really, they're an insular people who keep a low profile.

They believe in stark tradition over modern law and social conventions. Hillfolk keep to themselves and do their own thing first, second, and third.

They don't like to hurt anybody else if they can avoid it.

However, they also don't care if a few outsiders are collateral damage.

Once we're done eating, she crawls into the tent set aside for her, peeking around on hands and knees before she crawls back out and promptly spreads her sleeping bag over the floor.

Wiggling back inside, she sticks her feet out, kicks her boots off—giving me a glimpse of her toes in those pink and black argyle socks that match her flannel shirt—before disappearing inside again.

There's a whisper of cloth on nylon, her silhouette squirming against the camo siding, and then her head pokes out again.

She's all bundled up, snug inside her sleeping bag, and she watches me for a minute before murmuring an uncertain, "Good night."

"Good night, Miss Grey. Might want to zip up. Keeps the bugs out and keeps you warm."

"R-right," she says, then she zips the flap of the tent shut.

I shake my head, refusing to smile again.

Little pink hellion.

Another half hour passes before I tuck into my own tent.

I sit with Rolf at my feet, watching the last glimmering embers from the fire, alone with my thoughts. A second helping of soup goes down before I put the rest away in a thermos for morning.

Before I settle in, I risk peeking into Talia's tent, easing the zipper open slowly and silently.

I'm expecting to see nervous blue eyes looking back at me, too anxious to sleep.

Instead, she's a peaceful little ball of woman tucked up inside her bag. Her red hair spills all over the built-in pillow like scarlet paint.

She really is too innocent.

Trusting that she's safe, as long as she's out here with me.

I settle into my own sleeping bag but leave my tent flap open.

I don't mind being a little cold, and it's actually a pleasant early spring evening.

Rolf beds down outside.

I'd let him sleep in my tent, but he's still an old police dog at heart and always takes a wary position. He lays his head over the bottom edge of the opening of my tent, resting against the pillow of my sleeping bag.

We both doze lightly with my arm draped over his shoulders and his jaw pillowing my head.

I've learned to sleep sporadically. There's always some part of me always on alert.

The wake-up call comes a few hours later, right on cue.

I'm up when Rolf stiffens, his ears pricking, his head going up.

He's a better alarm than anything I could ever buy.

Slowly, I sit up without making a sound. His head points toward the site I marked earlier and I listen hard, straining to hear.

There.

Muffled engines.

Several engines by the sound of it, coming from that direction.

It's go time.

Whether or not Talia will believe what she sees remains to be seen.

Before I wake her, I slip out of my tent and stuff my feet into my boots, lacing them up while I dig around for my binoculars.

Creeping into the trees, I step over the pop tab warning system.

Rolf slinks under it, too, following me quietly as I inch toward the subtle sound of tires on noise-absorbing dirt.

At the crest of the hill, I hide behind a tree and look through a gap in the branches, using my binoculars.

I can just make out the Jacobins' trucks.

If you expected rickety pickups with raised slats around their beds for big loads, you're dead wrong. These are more like retired military surplus vehicles, big and blocky with their cargo areas covered, painted in muted greens, greys, and browns. Whatever helps them blend into nature unseen. Even their license plates are completely covered by black cloth they can move in seconds.

Now, why would any backwooded farmers cranking out moonshine go through all this trouble?

I race back to the campsite and drop to one knee next to Talia's tent.

When I reach in and gently shake her, she gasps awake, blinking at me. She starts to open her mouth but freezes when I rest my finger over my lips and shake my head.

The sleep clears from her eyes and she pushes herself up swiftly, looking past me and then mouthing,

"They're here?"

I nod, pulling out of her way and beckoning her. Come on. Hurry .

She scrambles up. Inwardly, I cringe at the noise of denim and flannel on nylon and the soft thuds as she pulls her boots on.

She can't help herself, though, and it's probably me being paranoid.

Still, the smallest crack of a twig can sound like a gunshot when it carries over these hills.

Once she's ready, all wrapped up in my jacket and looking at me nervously, I turn to lead her back through the woods, guiding her over the string trap.

We take the easiest path, praying the entire time she won't trip or step on a dry branch or a loud heap of leaves.

She manages well enough, keeping up with me in careful steps. Her red hair nearly glows in the dark.

I really fucking hope the Jacobins don't look up.

There's a thin sheen of sweat making her throat gleam by the time I stop her with a hand on her arm, showing her where to hunker down and kneel.

We're clustered close together in a small group of bushes flanked by trees, at the peak of a very steep drop down to the site.

By now, the trucks are parked in a metal ring. Small figures in dark clothes scurry around, hauling equipment.

Not all of them are Jacobins by blood, I'm sure.

Some are hired thugs from out of town, brought here to do grunt work, faceless and untraceable behind masks and head coverings that conceal everything but their eyes.

Their eyes, plus the gleam of the automatic rifles slung to their backs, each muzzle a third eye staring back into the night.

Without a word, I hand her my binoculars.

Talia takes them with an audible gulp, pressing them to her eyes as she leans down over the drop to watch.

I can make out well enough from a distance.

I'm familiar with this process.

Our targets are lightning fast as they set up portable sheds with just a few posts dug in the ground between corrugated aluminum walls. When they start off-loading the trucks, I see confusion sparking in Talia as she watches them pull down bales of green leaves bundled into tight sheaves.

"Is that corn?" she whispers. She's good enough that it's almost subvocal. I'm glad I have to strain to hear. "They make moonshine with corn, right?"

"Corn kernels. Not the leaves. Those are the wrong color and shape." I watch her closely as I say, "Those are coca leaves, Miss Grey."

She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and bites down. Her eyebrows knit together above the binoculars.

"It smells," she whispers.

"Gasoline. It's part of the process, rendering coca mash."

Her distressed sound is almost too quiet, but it's there.

She's nearly mangling her bottom lip now, turning it a succulent red.

"I thought there was gasoline in moonshine? That's why they say it's bad to drink…"

"You can make gasoline out of moonshine if you want to ruin your car. You can't make moonshine from gasoline. Also…" I gesture toward the two men who are busy off-loading several large sacks, clearly marked cement . "You want to tell me what you think happens with cement in the moonshine process?"

"No clue." She shakes her head.

"Nothing. Because cement powder binds cocaine, but it doesn't have a damned thing to do with brewing rotgut booze." I can't help how my whisper turns fierce. "I'm telling you the truth, Talia. All that equipment, those ingredients, they're brewing coke out here. I've tried following them back to their farm to find out where they hide the equipment and raw materials between batches, but they're too fucking crafty. They know how to pull a disappearing act before I catch them with real evidence. If I tried a bust out here like this, it'd be me and the guys—and they'd mow us down before we ever flashed a warrant. No one's going to send in SWAT for one crazy albino dude stalking the hillfolk over what everyone thinks is just bad whiskey."

I'm expecting another protest. Another denial.

Instead, I get a low, almost betrayed whimper.

Not at me, though.

Her fingers clench the binoculars as she lets out an almost heartbroken whisper. "Oh my God. Is that… the chief?"

I turn my head, looking down at the almost mechanical assembly line getting everything in working order with terrifying speed.

Sure enough, there's a familiar figure there, portly belly in plainclothes, standing with Ephraim Jacobin and another figure I don't see too often. An older woman, who stands there like a witch in a black shroud, her face like death.

"Yeah. I told you he's part of it," I whisper.

"Holy shit! But I didn't know you meant—"

"I know. Keep it down. I'm the only one who knows. He's someone you've always thought was safe, right? Someone who's part of your everyday life. But even the people you think you know can lie their asses off."

I can't take my eyes off Bowden. There's something different about the way he carries himself tonight. The hardness of his face is so at odds with his usual jowly smiles and bumbling pleasantry.

"This is where lies are born. Lies people tell themselves, that maybe if they take this powder, they can be superhuman. They can feel amazing. They can forget their worries, and they'll never stop feeling that way; the consequences will never catch up to them… their bodies won't eat themselves alive for another hit." I trail off, hatred bubbling on my tongue. "But karma always comes around. The lie always has empty promises. And thousands of people on the East Coast alone die every year thanks to those assholes down there, who think it's all fine and dandy just as long as the plague they unleash doesn't touch their little town too much." That hatred turns into a lump in my throat. "Like the people they never see suffering don't matter. Like my brother didn't matter."

I can hear the moment it clicks for her.

The shudder of her breath, the noise in the back of her throat.

I can't look at her—but I know she's looking at me.

Her big blue eyes pull on me like she wants to help me when I don't want to fucking feel better.

I want to hate.

I want raw and ugly and real.

I want this bloodlust fresh on my tongue until the day I demolish them.

"Micah," she whispers, her voice full of a hurting sympathy I can't stand when it tempts me to be weak, to fall into the comforting distractions of her softness and scent.

"Don't," I bite back bitterly. Rolf lets out a low whine and presses himself against my calf. "I don't want to hear it. It won't bring him back. All I want to hear is whether or not you'll help me after seeing this. I know Xavier Arrendell is the final key. He's what makes this possible. I just need to prove it."

"We," she answers with firm conviction. It rips through my grim focus, my fury, and forces me back to her. " We need to prove it."

I stare at her.

She looks back at me with glassy eyes that seem like they could swallow the whole sky.

No matter what an anxious little thing she is, she has heart.

She has a spine.

More importantly, she has the strength to stare at me, determined and firm in her decision, even though she's shaking and I don't think it's the cold.

This woman might be the key to everything .

And if I'm not careful, she could be my undoing.