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9. Darkest Hour (Talia)

9

DARKEST HOUR (TALIA)

N othing else in the world calms me more than the scent of the workshop and the sound of Grandpa hard at work.

I'm at my drafting table, with a perfect view of the shop front so I can head out if a customer comes in. But I'm not really thinking about sales right now.

Papers scatter across the angled wooden tabletop and my pencils are strewn everywhere. I've filled pages with sketches until my hand hurts, using my photos of the Arrendell manor as a reference, trying to tame that strange beast into something livable.

Behind me, Grandpa works over his lathe, humming softly to himself as he fills the workshop with the scent of hot sawdust, slowly bringing another masterpiece to life.

I feel like half my drawings are a tribute to him, to what I know he's capable of. I've always designed with Grandpa's style in mind, but also with a touch of my own.

No matter how I might feel about the Arrendells, there's something exciting about taking on the challenge of transforming a luxe dungeon into something warm and alive. The interior is mostly black and white with wood accents and tacky splashes of red. It makes me think of a chessboard strewn with the blood of kings and queens and pawns.

Then there's the garden out back.

Even if it was mazelike, there's natural beauty there.

Trees and flowers growing wild, a touch of lightness, like those grounds could somehow purify the darkness of the family's history. The idea stuck with me while I sketched and bled into concepts focused on light wood tones with a soft gloss meant to capture the natural light that could permeate the place if we replaced those heavy velvet drapes with modern fabrics and hand-carved wooden shutters.

My concepts turn the bedrooms into bowers, complete with flowered trellises of climbing vines. Others get more technical, but there's an organic look to it I like.

With a little grunt work, we'll make the interior of the manor look like it's sprouting up from the surrounding forest.

Yes, it's going to take years of hard work.

But as long as my grandfather's here, I don't care.

I'll work with Xavier Arrendell indefinitely if it helps Grandpa hold on to what he cherishes.

Right now, though, if I don't hurry, I'll be late for a meeting with the man in question.

I get up, shuffle my papers together, and slide them into a portfolio folder before slipping over to kiss Grandpa's cheek.

"Heading up to the big house," I say, while he slows the lathe and smiles at me. "Did you want to see my sketches before I go?"

"Show me when you get back." His smile brightens. "I trust you, Serena dear."

Only practice stops me from gasping with distress.

It hits me so hard, every time he calls me by my mother's name.

He must be in some strange liminal space between past and present, if he's not asking me why I'm going to the Arrendell manor.

I take a shaky breath, wondering if I should leave him unsupervised. No matter what happens to his mind, he never forgets his skills with his tools.

And in less than half an hour, Mrs. Brodsky will pop by to check on him and bring him his usual lunch.

"Okay." I force the words past my closing throat. "I'll do that. Are you okay with the backlog? We're up to our necks in orders lately."

"Oh, don't you worry about me. These old hands love keeping busy." He smiles so cheerfully his eyes crease into little crescent slits of blue.

Still, I'm hesitant.

But if I don't go, there'll be no job and no hope.

My feelings can wait.

I kiss his cheek and smile. "Be back soon. Have fun!"

His only answer is an affectionate nudge, his attention already back on the lathe and the bedpost he's working on. It was supposed to be my project, but when we discussed the Arrendell job the last time he was lucid, he agreed to take on all of my client work so I could sort out the logistics to prep for the big job.

I know it's necessary, but guilt still swamps me as I linger, watching him before taking a deep breath, shouldering my bag, and heading out with the portfolio of sketches under my arm.

I can't help craving distractions as I stroll down the street under the bright noon sun toward the lane leading up the hill.

Too bad my favorite distraction is parked in a patrol car down the street.

His tall, lean frame is slouched in the driver's seat, his uniform sitting so crisp and trim on his rapier-like frame. There's one angular cheek propped against his knuckles and a paperback open against the wheel.

He's on the opposite side of the street. I have to stop myself from crossing traffic to stare at him.

So I make myself look away, pretending not to notice when he's busy working. But I can't help watching Micah from the corner of my eye as I head down the sidewalk.

The second I do, I glimpse movement.

His head comes up.

Those silver-blue eyes hit me like a gunshot.

I'm an instant ball of fire.

But I can't let myself look at him, not directly, not when I'm too embarrassed to admit I've been watching him with the weirdest butterflies storming away in the pit of my stomach.

They only intensify when my phone goes off in my bag.

It couldn't be him.

It wouldn't be him, not when he doesn't need anything from me right now.

But when I fish out my phone, there he is on my screen.

Vampire Man.

Even if it feels a little weird calling him that right now when he's out here in broad daylight and clearly not disintegrating under the sun.

Micah: Person of interest spotted on 4 th . Baseball cap, oversized sweater, sneakers, jeans, red ponytail. Pink everything. Very suspicious.

I stop at the corner of 4 th and Main, looking back at Micah's patrol car.

He's stone-faced, looking down at his phone—until a sly glance slips toward me from under his arched brows.

I smile as I send back, Am I really that suspicious just for liking pink?

Micah: You're never supposed to trust pretty women in pink. So that makes you trouble, yeah.

My eyes widen.

I don't know if I want to giggle or hide.

He thinks I'm pretty? He's not just teasing? I—

No, stop it .

I'm not feeling that pretty today, I counter. I want to be as unpretty as possible. This outfit is defensive.

Micah: Uh-huh. You'll need more than that to look ugly, Shortcake.

God.

This man is trying to kill me.

My heart beats faster.

I step back, letting a mom with a stroller move past, stepping under the overhang of the bagel shop and leaning against the wall. I watch him as I try to figure out what to say back.

This feels almost like a strange secret, the two of us pretending we don't see each other while the whole world looks on.

But just as I'm trying to figure out what to say, he texts again.

Micah: Are you heading up to see him?

I don't like the way he phrases it.

I mean, I'm not going to see Xavier specifically. He's the last person alive I care to see.

I'm going for work, for my Grandpa's sake, for Micah's little mission.

I'm showing some sketches. I nibble at my lower lip. After the way he acted last time…

Micah: Got it. You don't want to give him a chance to sexualize you.

It's nice that he understands.

He just gets it without needing to be told.

I nod, glancing up at him with a small smile. He cocks his head curiously, studying me, then texts again.

Micah: I'm going to send you a link to an app. Would you install it for me, then set me as your emergency contact?

What app?

Micah: It's an emergency alert. Instead of having to call or type in a number, you tap the button and it alerts your emergency contact if you're in trouble. It's faster and more discreet. A second text follows immediately. If he makes you feel unsafe, if you feel threatened or like you can't leave voluntarily, hit the button. I'll come.

I swallow roughly.

Part of me still can't believe Xavier Arrendell is so dangerous that something like that seems necessary. He's been creepy, for sure, but not overly threatening.

Not yet.

The rest of me feels completely dumbstruck that Micah would go to those lengths, when that's a little more personal than a police officer responding to an emergency call as part of his duty.

I don't feel like I'm worth that.

Mousy little me.

I've always felt like background noise to other people's lives. The sick girl, almost invisible, always left out and left behind.

But Micah makes me feel seen.

For the first time in my life, he makes me feel important.

And right now, the way he's looking at me across the street blows my heart up.

It's almost like he can't see the real Talia Grey, the annoying runt everybody else knows.

I can't hold eye contact or I'll start thinking things I absolutely shouldn't. So I look down at my screen, taking a deep breath and texting.

And you wonder why I trust you're a good man.

Micah: You shouldn't. I'm fucking not.

My lips twitch. You're going to figure out pretty fast that I'm more stubborn than I look. You're not going to change my mind about that, Micah.

Micah: You think I want to?

I look up again, watching him from under the brim of my baseball cap.

I can't read his expression, not from this far, but the look on his face is so strange, so intense. The way he watches makes me feel like he's right next to me.

Feeling that strange, overpowering body heat that makes him seem more inhuman, that vivid presence that makes me shiver.

There's a loud pulse in my ears as I think about sharp teeth and fire in his dusky blue eyes, what that man could do with one kiss if he—

Oh my God, no.

No.

We're not going there.

It's not fair to Micah, seeing him as this fantasy instead of a real person—and honestly, I don't want to go see Xavier Arrendell with those kinds of thoughts rattling around in my head.

A weak smile flicks over my lips.

I'd better get moving. I'll be late.

Micah: Good luck.

His lips curl faintly and he looks away, out the other window of his patrol car.

It's like being released from a spell.

Thanks. I'll update you when I get back, I send, right before I force myself to turn away and cross the town square, only glancing at my phone again to install the app Micah sends with his next text.

The sun glints brightly off the bronze statue in the center of town, the rearing horse with the noble figure of the first Arrendell, briefly blinding me before I move past it and take the road leading up the hill.

This trek is getting familiar.

The trees overhead, the bright morning sky, the call of hunting hawks piercing the day. It would almost be a pleasant spring walk, if only I didn't feel like I was heading toward a brooding smudge of darkness waiting at the peak of the hill.

But there's a pleasure here, too.

Once, I wouldn't have been able to climb this hill without collapsing in a wheezing heap.

As I hit the steepest portion, there's a tightness in my chest, but nothing to be concerned about. I just measure my breaths carefully until it levels out in the huge roundabout courtyard at the front of the manor.

I really have come a long way from that girl I used to be.

That girl would never smile first at Joseph Peters when the valet greets me at the door with a solemn look.

"Miss Grey," he says, almost dubiously—eyeing me like he's wondering what I'm even doing back here after I scurried off days ago. "He's waiting for you in his office."

"Thank you, Mr. Peters," I answer brightly. "Have you been well since the last time we spoke?"

"I cannot complain, miss," he answers neutrally and turns to lead me into the house.

I follow him down now-familiar halls, working through my thoughts. What could I possibly ask him to probe for clues?

"There's a lot of history in these walls. I feel like I'm being hired to overwrite it, but I suppose it can't be all bad," I say. "Rumors, you know. People love to spread the dark stuff around, but what about the happy memories in this house? I just wonder if I'll be erasing them."

Joseph doesn't look at me, but his back stiffens.

I almost think he won't answer until he mutters, almost under his breath, "I'm not sure happiness can ever thrive in this house, Miss Grey. Frankly, I am not certain that even extensive redecorating will banish the ghosts in these halls."

My breath catches.

"Wait, do you mean… do you mean the maid?" I ask. "Did you know her?"

" Cora ," he says sharply, as if her is an insult.

"Sorry," I answer. "I totally meant no disrespect."

Joseph Peters stops in the middle of the hall, turning to face me with a long, thoughtful look. He's younger than some of the other servants I've seen around, probably under forty. He has a neat crop of brown hair parted down one side and kind, but wary brown eyes.

"Cora Lafayette was like an aunt to me," he says slowly. Carefully. Like he's choosing every word. "Perhaps even a second mother, better than the one who never wanted me. I came here for work, but Cora, she made me feel like I belonged. Not a day passes that I do not miss her, Miss Grey." He swallows tightly. "And I do not know what you mean to accomplish by asking me this."

"I'm sorry!" I hiss. "Really. I didn't mean to be rude or poke at any open wounds."

Joseph gives me another lingering look, almost unreadable. "This house is an open wound, Miss Grey," he says.

Then he pivots sharply on his heel. The forbidding line of his back tells me this conversation is over.

Well, crap.

I think I just hurt a man who doesn't deserve it, and possibly closed a door for Micah.

I want to apologize again, but I keep my mouth shut.

Sometimes, it's better to just stop digging.

We're not far from Xavier's office anyway, and I'm surprised to look past Joseph and see Xavier's usually closed office door hanging open. A hint of sunlight from the windows spills into the lamplit halls.

Joseph moves to the doorway, then goes stiff, whipping around like he's about to stop me, stretching out one hand. "Miss Grey—"

Too late.

I'm too close on his heels and I stop behind him, staring into the room.

Xavier Arrendell stands behind his desk with—

My scarf?

What?

It's pressed to his face, right over his nose and mouth. His eyes are closed almost blissfully as he inhales deeply.

Holy shit!

I nearly barf on the spot.

I didn't know I left my scarf here, though now I remember setting it in my lap at lunch. It must have fallen in the garden when I fled.

Now, here's Xavier, sniffing it like a curious dog.

He doesn't even notice Joseph and I are standing there.

For a second, there's a flash of abject disgust on Joseph's face. It feels like he's expressing what I can't.

But the valet abruptly wipes the look away as Xavier slowly lowers my scarf from his face and opens his eyes with a deliberation that stops my heart.

He knows.

He effing knows.

He's aware we caught him.

And he also doesn't care how we feel about it, either.

In fact, his gaze slides lazily to me, his catlike green eyes lidded with sick satisfaction, like he's enjoying the shock that must be written all over my face.

"Miss Grey," he drawls slowly. "Excellent timing."

I make a choked sound, trying to find impossible words. But Joseph speaks up first.

"I'll take my leave, sir," he says. "Do call if you need anything else."

He's clearly speaking to Xavier, only his eyes cut to me briefly. There's a sympathetic look, like he doesn't want to leave me alone with this man, but to keep up appearances he has no choice.

Is that a warning in his eyes? Is he telling me to play along?

My heart shrinks.

And I remember that app Micah had me install. Maybe his instincts were right after all.

I'm starting to get just how serious this is.

Joseph bows and turns to march away, leaving me frozen in the doorway and trying not to hyperventilate while Xavier watches me like the cat that got the cream.

Honestly, it pisses me off that he thinks it's so cute, that it had to be intentional, staging this scene so I'd catch him.

Anger loosens my tongue and pins a hard smile on my lips, one that doesn't feel like me. My fingers dig into the strap of my bag.

"Mr. Arrendell," I bite off. "I didn't realize I forgot my scarf. Thanks for returning it."

The glint in Xavier's eye says I'm not fooling him, but we're keeping up appearances, aren't we?

"Naturally." He beckons me forward. "Come in. I apologize for being so unseemly. I caught a whiff of your perfume, and I was hoping to identify the scent. It's a lovely floral, almost vanilla. It reminded me we really should keep more flowers around this godforsaken house."

Double yikes.

Stepping into this room feels like sticking my head through a noose.

Especially when I tear my eyes away from his smug face and glance down at the desk. There's a small silver tray there, a business card lying at an odd angle, and—

Oh. Is that a few grains of white scattered there?

My breath stalls.

If that's what I think it is…

There's too much spinning around me to process. My voice sounds so distant when I say, "Actually, I don't wear much perfume."

"What a shame," he replies smoothly. "It must be natural, then." His lips curl in an oily smile, and he offers me my scarf. "Here, Miss Grey."

Yeah.

I think I'd rather eat my own hand than get closer to him right now. I've never felt so filthy in my life from a compliment.

I edge a few inches deeper into his office, snatch my scarf from his hand without touching him, then move closer to the door with a dead-eyed "Thanks."

All while he watches me with pleasure.

I swear, if I didn't need this man's money, I might just punch someone for the first time in my life.

Keep it together. For Grandpa.

This is for him, even more than Micah.

I have to remember that.

I just need to keep him on track, keep this professional, and keep my stuff the hell away from Sniffy the Clown.

So I peel my bag open and fish out the sketches while stuffing my scarf inside.

"I brought some fresh concepts." I push them onto the desk hastily. "You can review them at your convenience and get back to me with any revisions. Or if nothing catches your eye, just let me know and we'll work up something else."

"Sit. I'll have a look now." He gestures flippantly to the seats opposite his desk. "It shouldn't take long."

Well, crap.

I was hoping to just drop off the sketches, make my escape, and maybe do the review over email. After that creepy lunch, I should've just tried to keep this remote to begin with.

But that's never easy in a town this small for a client this big.

Plus, if I make excuses and run, it'll be too obvious. I hate that so much rides on not alienating this maniac.

And there's a stiff, proud part of me that hates backing down and letting him intimidate me when that's what he's clearly trying to do.

Deep down, I imagine Micah over my shoulder, silent and strong and encouraging.

Stay strong, Shortcake. Show me how brave you can be.

He's just a tap of a button away.

He could stare down Xavier without a second's hesitation.

So I sink down in the chair, holding my bag in my lap like a shield while Xavier settles behind his desk and flips the folio open. Under the guise of looking for something in my bag, I find my phone and silently tap the app open so the emergency button is right there.

I sincerely hope I won't need it.

But it helps me feel calmer to have it ready.

Feeling calmer doesn't stop how awkward this is, though.

Dead silence, while Xavier slowly flips through the sketch folio. His expression gives away nothing.

I don't know if I should explain my ideas or just shut up and let him think, so I say nothing and just look around the office slowly, skimming the spines of books. They're just old encyclopedias and other reference sets. Maybe a set of Great Western literary classics.

Hmph.

There's something soulless about a man who doesn't keep any other kinds of books around, especially when these are probably just background décor. But I remind myself that I don't know Xavier, much less his reading tastes.

Even if that nagging core of sympathy over his dead brothers makes me feel a little guilty, I also don't want to know Xavier that way.

Not when his presence feels so smothering my chest wants to seize up.

I refuse to have another asthma attack over the stiff silence in the office, broken only by rustling pages as he looks the sketches over, taking his sweet time. It's only when I glance at him and realize he's locked eyes on me over the top of the folio that the panic hits.

He's doing it again.

Making me squirm on purpose.

Jesus. I am definitely not wasting an inhaler hit on this asshole today.

So I start counting, timing each breath. Old trick, calming and soothing.

As I wind down, my brain refocuses. Just enough to notice things about Xavier that hadn't filtered in before.

He's not the cleanest man for such a pampered existence.

There's dirt under his nails.

His eyes are too dilated for the sunlight coming through the office windows. They're jittery, too, and the pupils aren't just scanning across the page.

No, they're leaping, like restless marbles he has to grab and drag back into place.

There's a clammy film of sweat making his stubble look greasy, even though it's actually chilly in the office—and his dark-grey tailored suit isn't heavy enough to warrant it.

Micah would probably know what he's looking at. He'd be able to identify it with razor precision and insight. I can only guess.

Still, between that and the little tray, I wonder.

Is Xavier coming off a high right now?

For a second, I wonder who he might be, if he'd been born into a different life.

If he had a chance even now to get into rehab and start over—would it matter?—but I'm being na?ve again. Because he's not just a drug addict.

He's involved in distribution, and that's a choice.

That's not an illness.

I feel queasy, sitting across from a man who would make a choice like that and shamelessly being willing to take his money.

"Interesting." He finally breaks the silence, loudly stroking his chin. "An arboreal theme? Are we dryads, Miss Grey, flying around the branches naked?"

I swallow hard, suppressing a shudder.

"It's just a concept. If you don't like it, I could come up with something else—"

"No," he says sharply. I clamp my lips shut. "But I wonder, what would it take to add water installations in the great rooms to complete the look?"

"Contractors," I answer immediately. "Lots of them. That's architecture, plumbing. We'd need to hire consultants. I'm not sure it'll work, not without ripping up the entire floor in some places. It depends on the room. Some of them have marble flooring, and that's going to be hard to work around."

Not to mention, I'm not sure how well it would integrate with the general structure and design of the rooms. I mean, random water fountains and falls indoors?

I guess the customer is always right, but that's stretching it here.

"Show me," Xavier says imperiously. "Adjust the sketches and let me see what you come up with. Add the extra costs into your estimate." His gaze scans over two pages that he holds apart again. He frowns. "I see a few notes here about materials and costs, but not an overall quote for everything, including labor."

I swallow hard. Talking money makes me nervous, and quoting this price tag feels like death.

"Well, with a few architects involved, it would probably put the estimate at about four million dollars—and that's lowballing it." Just saying that amount makes me dizzy. "Also, we're looking at a minimum timeline of three years. Possibly longer. It all depends on changes through the process, the usual delays, material backorders, staff availability, and time needed to relocate people and functional areas temporarily while large sections of the house are being worked on."

If anyone told me they were about to send me a bill for over four million dollars, I'd faint.

Xavier doesn't even blink.

In fact, he smiles faintly, a strange ghostly curl that makes me uneasy.

"Let's make it easy and round up to five million. Why skimp? I like round numbers and this is a big undertaking."

I get dizzier. "Five million? But this—"

"It's not charity," he replies sharply. "Frankly, I'll be rather demanding with this project. Consider this advance compensation."

The way he says demanding feels so slimy that it's a miracle I don't grab my phone and hit that button right now.

Instead, I just nod slowly, feeling broken.

"All right. Five million. Very fair. I'll get the contract drafted and sent over, along with scans of the revised sketches. Typically, for larger long-term projects like these, we break up the payments into a downpayment and then installments. Does every six months and project milestones work for you?"

"Yes. I'll leave the logistics to you." He narrows his eyes. "You look pale, Miss Grey. Are you—"

"I'm fine," I lie.

"Are you about to have an asthma attack?"

I tense, recoiling. "How did you know about my asthma?"

"I'm as much a resident of Redhaven as you are. What ever stays secret in this town? Maybe I'm not as close to the daily gossip as the townsfolk." His smile is self-deprecating. "I hear things more like a thief holding his ear to the door, yes. But I do hear them." His brows lift mockingly. "Or did you think I was fishing for information about you?"

Of course I did.

I'm not sure I'm wrong, either, despite his explanation. I flush with mortification anyway and hold out my hand.

"If I can have those back, I'll get out of your hair…"

"So hasty to get away from me?" he mocks softly as he slips the pages back into the folio and passes it to me before rising. "I'll escort you out since Mr. Peters has disappeared."

Ugh.

Xavier has this way of talking that makes everything sound ominously significant. I can't tell if it's just the way he is, if he overheard any of my conversation with Joseph, or even if he already suspects his money may not buy the loyalty he thinks from his underlings.

There's a fresh chill in that green stone stare.

I feel numb as I back out into the hall, keeping precious space between us as he rounds the desk and approaches me.

That distance remains as he turns to lead me down the hall.

Xavier doesn't comment on it, thankfully.

I hate how I feel like a servant shuffling along in his wake, a few steps behind and to his right, but I'm more interested in escaping without any more weird moments.

Can I really spend years working here?

Well, it won't be all on-site.

Most of it will be in the workshop, I remind myself.

And with five million bucks, even with most of it going to cover materials and labor, Grandpa has time.

That gives me a thrill as we exit the hall and step into the foyer. But that feeling vanishes when I realize we're not alone.

I almost don't see her at first.

She's standing in a niche behind the huge double doors, like a statue tucked out of the way just to occupy space in an alcove.

Her severe all-black clothing doesn't help. She's dressed in an old-fashioned gown that covers her from neck to toe, severely fitted in the torso and loose in the skirt.

Her hair is iron grey, bound back in a prim knot.

The only pale points are her hands and her square face. She almost looks like a ghost, and as my eyes lock on hers, I nearly scream, clutching at my bag, my heart rabbiting in a panicked thump.

She stares back at me, totally expressionless.

Still, there's something so vile, so cold, so hateful in her black eyes, and my mouth goes dry.

I've seen her before.

That night we went camping.

She was there , standing back and watching like a black queen on a chessboard—and the way she looks at me right now hurts.

Like she's marking me.

Like she knows me.

But she couldn't know I was there that night with Micah… could she?

I can't think that.

It's not possible, and when Xavier breezes past her to open the doors without even glancing at her, pretending she's not there, I take my cue and look away without acknowledging her.

But I can still feel her watching as I step over the threshold.

It leaves me frozen, sweat breaking down my spine in beads.

Not even the afternoon sun feels warm enough as I venture out, down the soaring stairs. Xavier lingers in the doorway like a ghoul who can't cross into the light.

"Until next time, Miss Grey," he says with a strange formality.

"S-sure," I say. "I'll email you!"

"See that you do."

Everything feels wrong right now. Like I've just stepped out of a nightmare and back into the real world, yet I don't like it.

I breathe, shallow and swift, my lungs burning as I lunge downstairs to get away from here.

I wait until I'm on the path and in the trees before I stop, bending over and bracing my hands on my knees, just letting myself heave a little before I regain control.

Holy shit.

That was a Jacobin, wasn't it? That woman.

Micah was right.

They're connected.

And I need to get back to town and tell him ASAP.

When I text Micah and tell him I'm out, and I think I have something , I'm not expecting the text I get back nearly instantly.

Micah: My place. 8 p.m.

Blinking, I shiver for different reasons as I make my way into town, taking the long way to stretch my legs and calm down. The last time I went to Micah's place, he very conspicuously kept me from going inside.

Is he actually going to let me into his man cave this time?

…I hope so.

Just because suddenly, desperately, I want to be near him. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel clean .

Everything I need to scrub away the taint of Xavier's company.

I'm on edge the rest of the day.

By the time evening rolls around, I'm a nervous wreck.

It's just another business meeting.

Nothing personal.

I drop things, mess up sketches, send my pencils rolling across the drafting table. Luckily, when I got back to the shop, Grandpa was back to his old lucid self.

The whole afternoon, I can feel him watching with a thoughtful eye, though he keeps his observations to himself.

I don't know what I'd do with him teasing me about my jitters.

Have I mentioned I have near zero experience with men?

I need to remember that.

The fact that I'm not used to men who aren't family means I'm overly sensitive and likely to read more than I should into things.

So I need to stop thinking about how even though Micah almost never smiles, it always feels like he's laughing over text. How he tries to pass himself off as this human icicle, but he's so gentle with me, so sweet, and even funny in his own dry way. How he's a good man for caring about stopping the harm the Jacobins' drug business causes so many.

How it's not hard to tell the death of his brother broke him.

I definitely have no business wanting to cradle those small pieces of him in my hands and soothe their sharp edges.

After we close up shop for the day, I have an early dinner with Grandpa, then bounce to my feet and head for my room.

"Don't wait up," I tell him. "I'm going out this evening. Should be back by ten."

He watches me from the kitchen table with his thick brows raised, working at a bit of whittling. That's how he fell in love with woodwork a lifetime ago, starting with these small things.

The piece he's shaping now looks like a sparrow.

He's so good that he doesn't even have to look at the knife in his hand while he asks, "Date tonight, Tally?"

I nearly trip over empty air and catch myself on the doorframe to my room.

"N-no!" I sputter. "Just meeting a friend. To hang out."

"Mm-hmm. You're blushing," Grandpa points out. "So it's a friend you wish you were dating."

I stare into his twinkling eyes with abject horror.

"What? No, I—I…" I groan, hanging my head. "Am I that freaking obvious?"

"Only because I love you."

"I'm lucky you do." I smile faintly.

"And any man you've got your eye on would be lucky to have you." He cocks his head. "Tell me, when do I get to meet this young man?"

Never!

"Um, for real, it's not that kind of thing, Grandpa." I shrug. I'm a daydreamer, but I'm not completely unrealistic. "He's not interested in me."

"Bah. Then he's not someone worth meeting, if he's that big a damn fool."

I want to say he's wrong.

But I don't know how to make Grandpa understand, so I just smile and blow him a kiss.

"He's a good friend and that's all he is," I say before ducking into my room. "I'll be back before I turn into a pumpkin, don't worry."

His loud chuckle follows me.

I dig around in my closet to figure out what to wear.

So, yeah, maybe it's not a date.

Maybe I'll be at Micah's for twenty minutes before he puts me out with Rolf nipping at my heels.

Maybe I'm being silly.

But I feel like looking pretty tonight when I cross the threshold into Micah's domain.

I flick through my closet, eyeballing outfits before I settle on a layered sundress.

It's gauzy, pink-and-white stripes with a shirred bodice and spaghetti straps. The skirt flares out like a daffodil's bell from the high empress waistline, skimming down to mid-thigh.

I take a quick shower, then shimmy into the dress and touch on a little lipstick and a hint of pink eyeshadow.

Pink again.

It's like I want him to tease me into a smoking hole in the ground.

Yes, I'm doing the whole ‘trying hard to not try too hard' thing.

My sandals match the dress, at least. My bag doesn't, too big and bulky, but I don't care.

Since dresses tend to not have pockets, I'm a bottomless handbag kind of girl.

Once I make sure my phone is charged and in its pocket, I shoulder my bottomless handbag, kiss Grandpa's head, and slip out into the night.

Redhaven is a weird town.

You never know when you'll find out that the son of the town's wealthiest family is a notorious serial killer, but it's also safe enough that a young woman can walk alone after dark without feeling threatened.

Micah would laugh at me for that with his big-city ways. I'm sure New York girls are a hundred times smarter and savvier, more experienced in everything from avoiding danger to attracting men.

They'd know how to make the man they want look at them with hungry eyes.

Me, I only seem to attract the one I don't want.

Isn't that usually how it goes?

I try to make my brain shut up.

Self-awareness sucks.

I tell myself not to think about it.

Not to get all giddy as I make my way through a night drenched in the scent of azaleas and just warm enough to feel pleasant. Until I turn down the lane where Micah's house sits in its own little glade.

It's shaded by old trees, settled on a neat lawn with a small pond glimmering to one side. The modern timber-frame house looks so cosmopolitan against Redhaven's classic colonials, all sharp angles and clean edges.

Just like Micah Ainsley himself.

The porch light's on, casting gold everywhere, but the tall windows fronting the house look dark, only faint glimmers inside. Even if I tell my heart to settle down, it's thumping by the time I knock on his door.

It thumps even harder when he answers.

He's still in his uniform slacks, crisp and blue and pressed just right, highlighting the angle of his hips. But he's stripped down to a black short-sleeved undershirt that clings to his body like paint, hugging his chest and nearly snapping at the seams over sculpted biceps.

His silvery-white hair looks disarrayed tonight, falling into his eyes.

And those silvery eyes seem dilated behind a pair of thin rimless glasses.

A glass tumbler filled with gold liquid surrounding large ice cubes dangles from one hand.

Oh, my.

No wonder he wanted to meet here instead of in public. It would probably look sketchy for an upstanding officer of Redhaven PD to be tipsy among the people, even if he's not on duty.

Micah leans against the doorframe with a long, brooding look.

He's so unreadable I feel naked, every inch of me prickling as he takes me in. I want to say hello , but I can't look away from him until Rolf thrusts his head past Micah's leg.

The dog looks up at me with guarded curiosity, laying his ears back.

"Still hates me, huh?" I manage a smile, clutching the strap of my bag.

"I told you, he's stubborn." Micah stares, then takes a step back. "Come on in."

I follow him inside.

It really does feel like stepping into a wild animal's den.

The entire house is dark , paneled in mocha shades of wood in interlocking accent patterns to create a subtle motif. Black stone makes up the rough-tiled floor, the massive fireplace, and the lower wall accents. The furniture is all black leather, too, with hints of glinting steel here and there.

It's almost too classy for small-town North Carolina.

"I feel like I just stepped through a portal. Right into your fancy New York condo."

Micah stops mid-stride, looking over his shoulder.

I can only make out one blue-grey eye past the gleam of his glasses, but it's hard, bitter .

Oof.

Maybe I shouldn't have said that, even if I'm not sure why it upsets him.

I feel like I've earned the wary looks from Rolf as the dog pads along in our wake, his nails clicking on the tile. We head for the basement.

But Micah only shakes his head and moves on, nodding at the seating arrangement around the crackling fireplace.

"Pick a spot and make yourself comfortable," he says. There's a grittier edge to his voice, like the alcohol just scoured his throat. And it turns huskier, even more burned, as he takes a deep sip from the tumbler, making his way over to the long wet bar in glossy black lacquer along the room's back wall. "What's your poison?"

I blink, drifting toward an overstuffed leather chair.

"Uh, good question. I don't drink much to be honest. Just the occasional beer now and then with Grandpa."

"Hmm." He sets his tumbler down on the bartop with a clink and slips behind the bar. "Do you like sweet or tart?"

"Depends on the mood." I sink down in the chair, holding my bag in my lap. "I think tart sounds good right now."

"I can work with that."

Whatever I'm expecting, it's not the way he moves—graceful, efficient, slinging bottles onto the counter and whipping out a cocktail glass with practiced ease.

His big hands move like magic as he pours.

I don't even see the labels except for the lime juice.

In under a minute, he's whipped up something green and translucent with sugar around the rim and a fresh lime crescent wedged onto the cocktail glass. I think there's a sprig of mint in the concoction, too.

"Wow." I can smell it from here, breathing deeply. "That was so cool ."

Micah blinks like he's snapping awake from a trance.

He glances over almost sheepishly as he stuffs the bottles back under the bar, closing a concealed fridge with a faint thump.

"Hardly," he says. "I just paid my way through college slinging drinks. Let's see if you hate yours." He picks up my drink and his tumbler, angling around the bar on sinful strides, offering the glass. "Bottom's up."

I take the cool glass and inhale.

It's tart, all right, but nothing overwhelming.

"What is it?"

"Mint lime mojito with a splash of strawberry to take the edge off—and because pink is your middle name." He flops down in the easy chair next to me, propping his whiskey tumbler on his knee, his knuckles bulging around his glass.

Smiling, I take a careful sip, watching him over the rim.

The taste hits in layers.

First the sugar, then a delicate sting of sour lime, right before the strawberry sweetness and crisp mint floods taste buds primed by the lime.

My eyes widen.

"Oh, man, that's good !" I sound like such a dork.

But that wins me a weary smile, still bitter and dark. "Maybe I should've stuck with bartending instead of chasing phantoms here. I could've saved us a lot of trouble."

Concern whips through me.

"Micah? Are you okay?" I hold my glass close in both hands.

He looks away with forced detachment before he speaks again.

"I don't come from a high-class background. I'm from a hole in the wall in Queens. My mother died giving birth to me. My father drank every waking moment and beat me and my brother raw. I was his favorite. White skin. The perfect canvas for blood and bruises." His voice is so empty, so cold, so much emotion buried soul-deep. That fierce, chilling smile resurfaces. "I'm not asking for your sympathy. Isn't it ironic that I escaped alcoholic hell as a bartender?"

I don't know what to say.

My heart aches for him, and I don't want to say a single word to hurt him more than he's already suffered.

If he wasn't a little drunk himself, I doubt he'd be saying this stuff.

But I'm frozen, torn between the ache of wanting to comfort him and this feeling like I should keep my distance.

Rolf breaks away from his spot near Micah's chair and trots over with a little whine, his ears perking. I'm half expecting him to snarl at me for upsetting his master, but instead, he grumbles and lays his head on my knee, looking up at me.

Like he's asking me to fix this.

To help Micah when he can't.

I pry one hand away from my glass and scratch between his ears. " Now you like me, huh?"

Micah glances back at me, his mouth a humorless line. "He's a better mind reader than me. What are you thinking right now, Shortcake?"

I hesitate, too focused on scratching Rolf, who leans against my leg.

I don't just want to say the right words. I want the honest ones.

"Mostly that I don't want you to regret telling me any of that," I whisper.

"Interesting answer." Micah's heavy gaze weighs on me before he leans forward to scratch Rolf's ruff. "Guess he likes it."

And you? I wonder. What do you think?

But I don't ask him.

I just go still as my hand strays down Rolf's head while Micah's hand moves up.

Our fingers brush.

We both stop moving.

Our eyes lock.

There's an electric charge that feels like static.

My stomach twists, my heart pounding as Micah holds my eyes.

God, I still don't understand what I'm seeing there.

But I feel like those eyes could swallow me up, this hypnotic gaze watching me above the lenses of his glasses, drawing me in until I'm willing prey to this wild creature.

For a moment, we lean toward each other.

Then Rolf lets out a curious sound, shoving his head between us and knocking us away from each other.

Inhaling sharply, I pull back.

Micah looks away, still scratching the dog but no longer looking at me.

"What did you find today? Anything useful?" he asks gruffly.

Right.

Business.

That comes first and apparently last.

I try to calm my fluttery insides but it's like my pulse is on fire. I take a sip of the cool drink just to focus on something else before I speak again.

"A lot of things. I talked to Joseph Peters alone, very briefly. He knew the woman who died there last year. Cora Lafayette, right? He said she treated him like family, and he's clearly still bitter about it."

"He might be open to turning the tables on the people responsible for her death, then. And since Aleksander isn't around, Xavier could be the next best thing."

"Maybe," I say with a shrug. "I don't know. I feel like I upset him. He might not want anything to do with us."

"You'd be surprised what revenge will push you to do, Talia."

Micah would know, wouldn't he?

I lick my lips, catching a few stray grains of sugar.

"There's something else. When I got to Xavier's office, he was sniffing my scarf—the one I forgot there the other day." Micah's head whips toward me, his eyes narrowing as I rush on. "And, um, he had a little silver tray with a business card on it. I swear there were a few streaks of white powder. I think he was high. His eyes were odd and really jittery."

"Rewind," Micah snaps. "He was sniffing your scarf? What the fuck?"

I wince. "…y-yeah. He said my perfume smelled like flowers and he was trying to figure out which ones so he could keep them in the house. I told him I don't wear perfume."

"Go on." Micah's brows twitch dangerously. "What else did he say?"

I swallow thickly.

"That it must be my own natural scent. Gross, I know. I kind of zoned out because I was a little freaked."

"That fucking man is lucky I don't slit his throat."

I do a double take.

He says it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, like it's just an everyday thing to contemplate brutally killing a man over insulting a girl he barely knows.

I stare at him and he stares back, fierce and sharp as a blade. Then he lets out a ragged sigh and looks away.

"Relax. I'm not looking for prison time."

"Oh, I wasn't— I didn't—" Oh God. I'm dizzy, and I take a quick gulp of my drink just to steady myself. "You know that woman we saw camping? The one with the Jacobins?"

"What about her?" Micah immediately sharpens.

"She was there." It's easier to focus on hard facts and not how I suddenly feel very vulnerable in the gold-tinted darkness of Micah's den in this pretty little dress with him so close. It's not a bad feeling. I kinda like the strange thrill of it, but it still makes me nervous so I just ramble to distract myself. "The tall one in the old-fashioned dress? The mean-looking one? When Xavier walked me out, I saw her hanging around the front foyer behind the door. She stared at me the entire time. It was really creepy. Like she was mad at me."

"More like marking you," Micah growls. "That's something, all right. I've never seen Xavier Arrendell and the Jacobins together with my own eyes. You just did. She's probably relying on the fact that you won't recognize her, but hell…"

"I'm a witness to the link." I swallow. "But I don't recognize her, besides seeing her that night. I don't even know her."

"Eustace," Micah answers grimly. "Eustace Jacobin, Ephraim Jacobin's wife. Mother of the late Culver Jacobin and a mess of other kids. I've long suspected she's the real brains behind their entire operation."

"Huh?" I stare. "I didn't even know Ephraim had a wife. I've seen the Jacobins lurking around my whole life and I've never seen her."

"For good reason," he replies. His expression is a cold mask, dark with loathing. "You can't arrest her if you barely know she exists. She hides in the shadows, pulling strings with clever fingers. A black widow."

He leans close to me until our knees bump with Rolf trapped between us, so intensely near that I squeak.

Embarrassing.

But I'm caught up in those stormy eyes again and the harsh, almost desperate way he stares at me, his lips pulling back from his teeth.

"Never go out alone after dark again," he bites off. "I'll take you home tonight. Be careful. Always stay in plain sight of others. If you see the Jacobins in town, ignore them. Don't acknowledge them, don't glance in their direction. If Eustace Jacobin thinks you're a threat, or even just a loose end…"

He doesn't have to finish that thought.

The horrid danger hangs in the air between us, heavy and frightening, making my heart hammer.

Or maybe it's not the threat of the Jacobins hanging over my head.

It's more that Micah is so close I can feel his breath, just barely teasing my lips. And I can't escape how he is when he's this fired up.

His skin flushes in beautiful hints of red against white skin, making his red mouth stand out more starkly, so unintentionally sensuous it's obscene.

The man is mystery and moonlight, an arctic fox, and the firelight licks gold along his cheekbones and swims in his eyes.

When his gaze drops to my mouth, I shiver.

And I realize he's staring at me as intently as I'm staring at him.

There's something there.

Something I've never experienced in my life, and it pulls me closer.

This dangerous thing, so dark and hot it makes the air vibrate as he sways closer, too.

His teeth gleam white, just past his parted lips—hungry, so hungry, just like the stars in his eyes.

This is pure want.

The kind I know too well.

Wanting the anticipation building between us.

Wanting the way my lips tingle as he tilts his head, bending over me, so close, deliciously oppressive as I rise to meet him and—

Rolf shoves his big furry head between us, panting cheerfully and nosing for attention.

I pull back with a muffled sound.

Micah slumps back too, giving me an almost guilty look before he turns his head away, looking through the tall windows to the pond at night.

He adjusts his glasses and strokes a soothing hand between Rolf's ears, taking another sip of his whiskey, but he says nothing.

Holy hell.

I don't even know what to do with this much tension.

So I just look down into my drink. I'm tempted to throw the rest down to ease this feeling inside me, but when I get too drunk, I get even more jittery. So I just take a delicate sip, filling the silent, strained seconds.

Maybe I should let myself out.

I said what I came to say, after all.

He knows he can hit up Joseph Peters, and he knows I saw Eustace Jacobin at the manor. Just like he knows I probably caught Xavier when he was high as a kite.

This is a business meeting. Nothing more.

So I really should go and stop flipping daydreaming.

"Listen to me, Talia. If Xavier Arrendell ever lays a hand on you, you tell me," Micah says, still staring out the window. "I will break every last one of that man's fingers into pebbles."

I blink. "He… he didn't try. I promise. And I won't let him!"

"What makes you think he'll give you a choice?" Micah growls. Then he tosses back his drink and clunks the tumbler onto the black glass coffee table. He stands, hooking his fingers in Rolf's collar and gently helping him to his feet. "Take your time with your drink. There's water under the bar too if you need it. It's time for his walk. When you're done, wait for me and I'll walk you home."

What, he's leaving?

He doesn't wait for me to answer, to find my words.

To ask him why the hell he almost kissed me and what we're going to do about it.

There's only the angry line of his back and the unbreachable distance of a man I can't begin to comprehend. He leaves me staring after him as he walks away, fetching Rolf's leash from a hook by the sliding door before he leads the dog out into the night.

Leaving me alone, with more questions than answers and the lingering scent of his smoky whiskey breath still clinging to my skin.

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