Chapter 9
OAKLEY
“How’d your first month in Wimberley go?” my sister asks as I exit the elevator onto rooftop lit by the late-afternoon sun.
Amelia’s video calling from her artsy tiny space in San Miguel de Allende, her hair in a long braid over her shoulder, dotted with tiny flowers.
She’s a couple of years older than me and has never quite thought of herself as a Wildling. When I realized the news articles never mentioned her, I asked her if she felt left out. She snort-laughed.
“By the time you dweebs made the news, I had my own car and my own friends. We got away with our shenanigans without alerting the fucking press.”
Amelia still calls us dweebs, but she says it with a lot more affection now. I know she’s proud of the work the Wildlings have done, and I’m equally proud of her.
Amelia’s contribution to the giving clause is funding the arts in after-school programs in underserved areas. Additionally, she chairs the board of the Ashford Scholarship for the Arts, which annually awards twenty college-bound teens with extraordinary artistic talent.
A few years ago, she moved to Mexico to pursue her art and learn more about her birth mother’s culture. I miss her like crazy sometimes.
Don’t tell her I said that.
“Sorry, Melia,” I answer with a smile. “I could tell ya all about Wimberley, but then I’d hafta kill ya.”
Thankfully, the dads decided to bring in the rest of the Wildlings-adjacent crew. Amelia knows she was given a gently sanitized version of what we do, but I’m glad I don’t have to lie to her.
Mostly because she’s scarily good at ferreting out anything I try to keep hidden.
Even though we don’t look anything alike—she’s adopted, at least a foot and a half shorter than me, and Latina, while I can barely manage a tan and am very clearly Thane Ashford’s son—you’d have a hard time finding a closer pair of siblings.
“Okay, fine. What do you have going on tonight?” She leans in. “Are you hanging by the pool? During business hours on a Friday?”
“Yes, nosey. We leave early on Fridays and meet here for beers and pool time.” I snort.
She laughs. “Sounds nice.”
“Which reminds me…”
I take her with me as I beeline for the outdoor fridge and grab a Modelo. I pop the top and take a deep drink.
“Oh, excellent idea.” She sets down her phone. Her voice is tinny as she calls out, “Gimme a sec. I’ll join you.”
I listen to her moving about her tiny kitchen as I meander by the pool, still dazed from everything I’ve learned these last few weeks. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about my conversation with Silas.
God, I just want to hold him until he knows exactly how amazing he is, even with the murder room.
Especially with the murder room.
Definitely not telling her that.
Amelia picks up the phone and toasts me.
As I take another drink, she asks, “Have you seen much of him?”
I choke a little, which she definitely notices.
She hasn’t even said his name.
“Occasionally, when he’s not out on assignments,” I finally say. “I mean, he and I have the same lunch schedule, but Sy tends to keep to himself.”
She nods, taking in that bit of information. “Do you think he’s avoiding you?”
Maybe?
I saw him in front of our condo building two days ago and called out his name. I’d been unreasonably happy to see him, despite the fact that I’d chatted with him about an upcoming op earlier in the day. He never acknowledged me and instead ducked down the alley.
I think he might still feel a little awkward after realizing how much I know, though I hope he understands that I’d never gossip about him. Not even with my nosey sister.
Even if I weren’t bound by what’s left of my ethics training, what we shared feels…personal.
I hem and haw for a moment. “No? I mean, he tends to keep to himself when he’s in work mode.” I laugh. “Either that or he can’t see me.”
She raises her expressive brows. “Hermano, you’re, like, seven feet tall and built like a defensive tackle. There’s no way he can’t see you.”
“Jackass.” I shoot her the finger as I take another drink. “I’m six seven. Also? I’m more of a linebacker, thank you very much.”
She winks at me. “Okay, but in off-work hours, does he still look at you like you’re the juiciest piece of steak out there?”
I ignore her as I turn on the water misters and plop onto the couch under the shade sails.
“Well?”
“I swear, I regret saying anything to you.”
Sisters are the absolute worst.
“Whatever. You didn’t have to say a word. He stares at you like a lost puppy whenever you aren’t looking.” She snorts. “Not to mention the fact that heavily tattooed and kinda broken is your favorite flavor of person.”
Ugh.
I mean.
She’s not wrong.
But having Amelia on the case makes this all so much worse.
“I’ll remind you I’m on the psych team at Wimberley, and it would be inappropriate for me to pursue anything with a member of the operations team.”
Also, historically speaking, I’m a bit of a manwhore. Not to mention busier than I’ve ever been. A relationship, especially with Sy, is an evergreen no-go.
Just…ha. No.
I mean, c’mon.
Given what I learned in our conversation, I’d end up spending the rest of my life convincing a killing machine that he’s good and worthy of love.
Which is, y’know, true.
But also professionally embarrassing.
“You still haven’t answered my question, Oak. Is Sy still mentally undressing you every time you’re within his line of sight?”
Will she ever let this go?
Narrator: I believe we all know the answer to that question.
“I haven’t noticed.”
I mean, he did press his face into my neck and hug me like I was the only thing keeping him alive.
My sister rolls her beautiful big brown eyes at me. “You hopeless slut.”
I keep eye contact while I down the rest of my beer. I consider another but grab a water instead. She’s still waiting.
Letting out a frustrated growl, I ask, “Why are you trying to stir the pot? You know Dad would have a goddamned heart attack if I slept with Sy. Hell, he still hasn’t forgiven the Wildlings for insisting he move into the same building as us.”
I mean, I was the one who started the conversation about bringing Sy into the building, but I’m definitely not telling my fathers that.
She snorts. “Silas wants you to become Cupcake’s stepdaddy. Stop acting like it’s a matter of whether or not you want to sleep with him.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “That is not the point. The point is that Dad would crash out, vomit, and never forgive me.”
“Silas Hernandez is not Silas Blake, Oak.”
No shit.
Blake couldn’t lick my Silas’s shoes.
“Yes, I’m aware. He’s still not dating material. And besides, I don’t date.”
I mean, I might if life would slow the fuck down, but that’s not happening anytime soon.
“Fine. Do you at least have access to his personnel files?”
“Of course I do. Why is that any concern of yours?”
“I’m just saying. The dads refuse to tell us any details, only that he’s a dangerous psycho who has always been a dangerous psycho and we are to never have anything to do with him.”
I’d love to tell her I have definitive proof that Sy isn’t a psycho, but that crosses one of the few ethical boundaries I’ve managed to hold on to this month.
I mean, Maverick came back to my office a few days after his initiation, once everything had kinda landed. We talked through how upset he’d been, not knowing about Uncle Eddie. He cried. I gave him excellent clinical advice.
I managed to avoid telling him that his twin is the only near-psychopath I’ve discovered so far.
Then we went out by the little waterfall and smoked some really good weed with Hedy.
So. Yeah.
I refocus on the screen, and Amelia is glaring at me.
“You’re thinking about him right now, aren’t you?”
“You just asked me about him, Melia. What am I supposed to be doing, contemplating the weather?” I shrug. “And yes, our fathers would love it if we acted like Sy never existed.”
“True,” she says on a snort.
“Though…” I tap my chin. “They hardly ever complain about him living in the same building anymore.”
“To you, Oak. They hardly complain to you,” she says, widening her eyes. “Dad has never stopped fretting over it to me, and Papa isn’t much better.”
“Which again begs the question: Why are you pushing this thing with Sy so hard?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I know you pretty well. You two seem like a good match.”
I mean…she’s not entirely wrong.
Which is unusual for Amelia.
“I don’t even wanna know what that means.”
“It means I’ve got five bucks that says you two would be fire in bed.”
I’m immediately assaulted by a very detailed visual.
Would he kneel for me?
Fucking hell.
“Gross, Melia! Boundaries!”
“Ugh,” she says, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “Americans are such prudes.”
“You say that like you are not also an American.” I shake my head. “Also, I can’t be both a slut and a prude.”
She snorts. “Don’t act like he’s not your type.”
I need more beer for this conversation.
“I hate you.”
She winks at me. “I love you too, baby brother.” Her focus shifts to something behind me. “Oh, hey, Sy!”
I close my eyes.
“I am going to go down there and murder you in your sleep,” I mutter under my breath. “I can get away with that now.”
“Welp. Sy would definitely help you bury the body.” She smiles broadly. “All you hafta do is ask nicely.”
Menace.
“Bye, Melia.”
Before she can open her big mouth again, I end the call and send up a small prayer that Silas hasn’t been here the entire time.
I turn to face him. He’s got a towel over one well-muscled shoulder, and he’s wearing flip-flops, bright-orange swim trunks, and the dark wraparounds that cover his stunning silver-blue eyes.
I let my eyes trail down the length of him and…
fuck. His body. His muscles are sleek, dangerous, and covered in gorgeous ink.
He’s clearly a fan of horror in any format, and most of his tattoos are well-known characters from books, movies, and comics.
His skin gleams from the heavy-duty sunscreen he uses to protect the expensive artwork, and I try not to drool on myself.
Fine. He’s definitely my type.
“Hey, Sy. Wanna join me for a beer?”