Chapter 6
SIX
TWIGGY
For a second I think he’s joking.
Then someone knocks.
Three firm, measured raps. Not tentative. Not aggressive. Just…there.
I stare at Jack. “You did not.”
He doesn’t bother to deny it. “I told him to meet me here.”
My heart starts doing an impression of a hummingbird in my chest.
“He drove from Philly already?” I ask. “It’s barely—” I glance at the clock “—seven-thirty.”
“Bran Kelly‘s idea of a good time is a dark road and a clear objective,” Jack says dryly. “Open the door, Twig.”
“I hate you,” I mutter, but my feet are already moving.
I take the chain off, flip the deadbolt, and pull the door open.
He fills the doorway.
Last time I saw Bran, he was framed by Brodie’s much larger front door.
Somehow, he looks even bigger in mine. He has to duck a fraction just to step through.
His shoulders nearly brush the narrow frame.
Cold air rides in with him, along with a hint of coffee and winter and something that might be clean soap.
He’s in a dark jacket over a sweatshirt, jeans, and heavy boots. His hands are bare despite the cold, his knuckles scarred and one wrapped in white gauze. His hair is a little longer than I remember, dark brown curls flattening slightly under the damp.
His eyes hit mine, a muted blue so dull it’s almost gray.
His gaze is dark. Assessing. No visible surprise.
I slam the door in his face, relishing the look of shock just before his boot catches it.
“What the hell, Tallulah?”
I move to stand before him with my hands on my hips.
“What the hell? I’ll give you what the hell, you overgrown…
big…giant,” I trail off lamely, noticing for the first time that my head barely comes up to his pecs, and he could easily break me in half.
“And don’t you dare call me Tallulah. It’s been Twiggy forever. Thanks to you, I might add.”
A corner of his mouth notches up. “Kael calls you Tallulah.”
“Kael also calls you Kelly like you’re in detention.” I cross my arms. “You going to stand in the hall all day or are you coming in to tell me why you’re ruining my life?”
“Good morning to you, too,” he says mildly. He gives me a slow, head-to-foot assessment.
“Nah. You’re not a twig anymore. Look at Tinkerbell, all grown up,” he murmurs.
My eyes narrow to slits. “Look at the Incredible Hulk, still a child.”
“Still a mouthy little brat, I see.”
“Still a jackass, can confirm.”
Behind me, Jack snorts. “Play nice, children.”
Bran steps inside.
The room shrinks.
I’m only five-two on a generous day. My apartment is built to scale for someone five-eight, maybe, tops. Bran is…not that. He’s easily six-four, maybe six-five with the boots. His shoulders take up a disturbing percentage of the available air.
He does a slow, automatic scan of the space—door, windows, kitchen, hallway. It’s surgical, impersonal—kind of like the way I look at code.
“You’ve got acceptable locks,” he says, turning to look at the door as he closes it behind him.
His voice is low, a little rough around the edges.
As though he doesn’t use it very often. “Deadbolt’s decent.
Chain is shit. This wood frame is useless.
” He wanders over to the windows and inspects them.
“Your windows are the best part of this set-up.”
“Thank you?” I say. “I think?”
He nods at the tiny camera nestled in the corner of the living room ceiling. “Where does that feed?”
I bristle. “Are you asking because you’re impressed or because you’re about to tell me everything I did wrong?”
“Both,” he says without missing a beat.
Jack looks like he’s trying not to smile.
“The cameras feed to my laptop and an encrypted external,” I say grudgingly. “Plus a cloud server with redundancy. If he tries to cut my power or my internet, I still have copies.”
“And the system alerts…who?” Bran asks.
“Me,” I say. “Obviously.”
“Nobody else?” His brows twitch. “Not Brodie? Not Brady? Not any third-party security?”
“I didn’t want to spam them with alerts every time a raccoon walks by my window,” I say. “I handle triage; I text when it’s actually important. But I did loop Brodie in.”
He looks at me for a long second. “That’s changing.”
I feel my hackles rise. “Excuse me?”
“If you’re the one in danger, you don’t get to be the only one who knows when something pings.” He moves past me into the living room, putting himself between me and the front door without seeming to think about it. “Brodie’s good. We’re tying your feeds into Jack’s system. Mine.”
“Like hell we are,” I say.
Jack clears his throat. “Twiggy.”
“No.” I whirl on him. “You are not piping my entire digital life into ECI’s servers because a man with a bad haircut knocked on my window. This is my apartment. My network. My data.”
“It’s your life,” Bran says quietly. “We’re trying to keep it happening.”
I hate that that lands.
I also hate that my stupid body has noticed he’s exactly the same kind of big he was last year but somehow…more. Filled out. Or maybe it’s just that I’m on my home turf instead of Brodie’s, and the contrast is sharper.
His gaze flicks to my tree, to the hummingbird swinging near the bottom, and slides across to the bed only half-hidden behind the partition. It's still made, the blankets undisturbed. Something moves behind his eyes. It might be recognition, might be nothing.
“You sleep at all?” he asks.
I bristle at the casual intimacy of the question. “You always ask inappropriate questions right after barging into someone’s home, or am I just special?”
“There a reason you’re vibrating like you’ve had eight espressos?” he counters.
I look down at my hand. The fingers of my empty hand are drumming against my thigh. I hadn’t realized.
“I slept fine,” I lie.
“Sure you did,” Jack mutters.
Bran’s gaze slides to Jack. “You got a minute? Outside.”
Jack pushes off the counter. “Yeah.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “If you’re going to have a strategy meeting about my life, you should have it where I can eavesdrop properly.”
Neither of them dignifies that with a response.
Bran steps back to the door. When he opens it, cold air rushes in again. Jack follows him into the hall. The door clicks shut behind them.
I stand there, donut in hand, frosting on my fingers, feeling like someone just hit pause on my life and walked away with the remote.
They talk in low voices outside. I can’t make out the words through the door, but I can hear the cadence. Jack’s gruff rumble. Bran’s deeper, steadier tone. No raised voices. No obvious argument.
I hate it.
I grab my phone and text Cotton.
ME: he’s here
COTTON: the serial killer???
ME: wow okay no. babysitter. Kael sent Bran
COTTON: oh
ME: what does “oh” mean
COTTON: just “oh he’s very large and sort of hot in a terrifying way”
ME: BLOCKED
COTTON: lol okay sure. do you need me to come distract you or are you going to sexually harass the help all by yourself
ME: I hate everyone
COTTON: that’s the PTSD talking. eat ur donut
The door opens again before I can come up with a scathing reply.
Bran steps back inside. Jack follows, looking resigned.
“Okay,” Jack says. “Here’s the plan.”
“I would love to hear the part where I get a veto,” I say.
He doesn’t smile. “There is no veto.”
“Democracy is dead,” I mutter.
“Democracy never lived in this apartment,” Jack says. “Bran’s going to be with you for the next little while. Twenty-four seven.”
My skin prickles. “Define ‘with me.’”
“Here, in the apartment, with you,” Bran says.
“That's not happening,” I say.
“Try again,” he says.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” I grind out.
He looks at me then in a way that makes it feel like he’s looking through me, not at me—past the sarcasm, past the hoodie, past the donut clutched in my fingers.
“You had a serial killer at your window last night,” he says, voice low. “Men like that don’t knock once and leave forever. You know that. Better than most.”
My breath stutters.
“I’m not…” My throat closes around the word afraid. “I’m not helpless.”
“I never said you were,” he replies. “I’m saying you’re outmatched in a very specific arena. He has weight and reach and a head start. I have those, too. That’s the point.”
I hate that everything he’s saying is reasonable.
I hate that my palms are sweating.
Jack steps in. “Look, Twiggy. This isn’t punishment. It’s coverage. You focus on what you do best—digging, tracking, finding the pattern. Let us focus on the doors and windows.”
My heart thumps hard against my ribs. My brain, unhelpfully, conjures an image of Bran literally filling my doorway, blocking it with his body.
Something in my chest flips.
“This is temporary?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Jack says. “Until Thurston’s either in custody, confirmed gone, or dead.”
“Optimistic,” I mutter.
“I like to give myself options,” he says.
I look at Bran again. He’s standing easy but ready, weight balanced, hands loose at his sides. He doesn’t seem impatient. Just…there. Solid.
This is happening whether I like it or not.
My choice is whether I make it harder on myself in the process.
I blow out a breath. “Fine.”
Jack’s brows go up. “Fine?”
“For now,” I add. “On a trial basis. One day. Maybe two. After that, if I decide I’d rather take my chances, you both have to go along with it.”
“Not how that works,” Jack says.
“I know,” I say. “But it makes me feel better to pretend.”
Bran’s mouth actually twitches. It might be the most expression I’ve ever seen on his face.
“I’ll do a sweep of the building,” he says. “Then we’ll go over your schedule for the next few days. Work, errands, any events. You don’t go anywhere alone. Not even downstairs for your mail.”
“I don’t get mail,” I say automatically.
He gives me a look. “You get something.”
“Mostly spam and pizza coupons,” I say. “But sure. Let’s protect the sanctity of my junk mail.”
He ignores the sarcasm. “You leave this apartment, you tell me. You talk to strangers, I’m there. Someone knocks on your door, you don’t answer until one of us clears it.”
“One of us,” I repeat faintly.
“Me, Jack, Brodie if he shows his face,” Bran says. “Atlas, if Kael sends him down for backup. Shiloh and Cotton are not security.”
“I beg to differ,” I say. “Shiloh with a pregnancy craving is a force of nature.”
Jack snorts again. “He’s not wrong, though. Let the professionals handle Thurston.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re going to hate working with me.”
Bran doesn’t look fazed. “I already do,” he says.
Somewhere under the residual fear and the irritation, a spark of something sharp and electric flickers.
Challenge accepted, my brain purrs.
“Fine,” I say again, because the alternatives are worse. “You can hover and glower and be inconveniently enormous in my living room. But if you touch any of my equipment, I will tase you in your sleep.”
“Noted,” he says.
Jack checks his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the station. State guys are rolling in, and I’d like to be there before they start peeing in corners.”
He claps a hand on Bran’s shoulder. It looks like a normal man trying to pat a wall. “Try not to kill each other.”
“No promises,” I mutter.
Bran doesn’t bother to answer.
After Jack leaves, the apartment is too quiet again.
It’s just me and Bran. He looks at me. I look at him.
“Where do you want to start?” he asks.
I swallow the last of my donut, lick my fingers and wipe them on my jeans, and pick up my laptop.
“You can do whatever you want,” I say. “I’ll be monster hunting.”