Bran finally lets go of my hand. The absence is immediate and loud, like someone yanked a plug.
“All right,” he says, pushing back from the desk. “Now we take a break.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“The living room,” he says. “Cotton promised cookies. You’re going to eat something shaped like a snowman and pretend for five minutes that the only thing you have to worry about is whether you get frosting on your shirt.”
“That’s…very specific,” I say.
“I have nieces,” he says.
Of course he does. So this man likes donuts, has nieces, and knows how to talk me down off a mental ledge without making me feel stupid.
Tremendous.
“Fine,” I say, standing. My legs wobble a little; I’ve been folded into this chair for too long. He notices before I do, stepping in close, one big hand settling at the small of my back—light, barely there, just enough to steady.
It feels like more.
“Tallulah?” he says as we reach the door.
“Yeah?”
“You close that window again before you open it,” he says. “You get to choose when he’s allowed in your head. Not the other way around.”
I swallow hard.
“Okay,” I say.
And for the first time all day, with his hand warm against my spine and the smell of cookies drifting down the hall, I almost believe it.
FIFTEEN
BRAN
I’vebeeninwarzones and back rooms and Kael Gallagher’s bad graces, and none of that feels as dangerous as sitting in a warm, well-lit room with Twiggy Gentry three feet away from me.
Later, after Brodie has gotten back in, Savvi has declared herself “off duty,” and Cotton’s mother has retreated to her sitting room to watch her shows, we migrate to the family room—big plush sofas, fireplace, portraits of dead relatives on the walls watching every move.
Cotton settles onto one end of the couch with a groan, Brodie automatically propping cushions under her feet. Saoirse curls up at her side with a picture book.
Twig takes the other end, laptop in reach but closed. I end up in an armchair angled toward both the door and the room.
“House rules,” Cotton says, pointing her spoon at us like a gavel. “Nobody goes out alone. Doors stay locked. If Twiggy is in the bathroom more than five minutes, one of us is knocking.”
“Why am I the benchmark?” Twig demands.
“Because you’re the one Henry is interested in,” Brodie says bluntly. “And Kael will have my ass if I let anything happen to you.”
Saoirse’s head pops up. “Mr. Henry is the bad guy, right?”
Twig winces. “We’re not talking about the bad guy, Saor-bear. We’re talking about…grown-up stuff.”
“Bad guys are grown-ups,” Saoirse says, matter-of-fact. “Daddy said so.”
“Your daddy needs to work on his bedtime stories,” Cotton says.
Brodie lifts his hands. “Hey, I tried the princess thing. She asked where the castle’s perimeter fence was.”
