Boldness flares—sharp, bright, new.
Keeping my eyes on his, I peel the T-shirt over my head and let it drop.
I stand there completely naked, the cabin air kissing every inch of me. The old Tallulah would have crossed her arms, tried to hide, cracked a joke.
This Tallulah lets him look.
Bran’s pupils blow wide. His jaw tightens; his fingers flex again on his thighs like he’s physically holding himself in place.
“Jesus,” he says softly, like a prayer and a curse in one.
Heat streaks through me, not embarrassment this time but something very close to triumph.
Turning on my heel, I stroll toward the bedroom, not bothering to hide the sway of my hips.
“I think the game is over,” I toss over my shoulder.
Behind me, the chair scrapes back in a rush. Heavy footsteps follow, quick and certain.
Bran may have won Scrabble.
But in this particular game between us?
I’m definitely the one holding all the tiles.
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWIGGY
Theentirecabinsmellslike sex and sin, and it’s well past noon before Bran finally lets me leave the bed.
My thighs ache in a way that feels obscene and satisfying, my skin is tender everywhere his mouth has been, and my core pulses with the lingering echo ofhim.
I pause in the doorway and glance back.
He’s sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung over his head, the sheet riding low on his hips. The harsh lines that usually live between his brows are gone, smoothed out into something almost boyish. Peaceful.
The sight twists something in my chest.
Those lines are there because of people like me. Because Kael sends him to clean up messes, guard liabilities, babysit trouble.
Because Henry Thurston decided he needed to put me in my place.
I shut the bedroom door quietly and stand in the middle of the little living area for a second, letting my brain spin.
If Henry had never come back.
If he hadn’t gone to Cotton’s farm.
If Miguel hadn’t—
My throat tightens. I shove the thought away.
Not for the first time, I wish the last week had gone differently. That I’d somehow seen further ahead. That my presence hadn’t painted a target on the people I love.
I walk over to the picture window and peer out at the ridge. Bare trees, gray sky, a thin scrape of snow in the shadows. Somewhere down the dirt road, Scully is probably dozing in his car, pretending not to be on guard duty.
I hate that they’re all here because of me.
