Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
brAN
I’ve been in war zones 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.”
Saoirse beams. “You gotta have a strong perimeter fence. Or the dragons get in.”
“Smart kid,” I say.
She gives me a look of fierce approval. “Thank you, giant.”
Twig chokes on a laugh.
Once Saoirse’s in pajamas and has been ferried upstairs—after one more “macushla,” a kiss from Brodie, and a pat on Cotton’s belly that makes my chest twist in a way I’m not examining—we’re left with the four of us and the crackle of the fire.
Cotton eyes Twig’s laptop. “Are you getting back on?”
“Not tonight,” Twig says, fingers drumming on the closed lid. “Bran’s right. I need a buffer zone.”
“Say that again,” I say. “I want it on record. The ‘Bran’s right’ part.”
“Don’t push it,” she says.
She looks…exhausted. Not just physically. There’s a bone-deep kind of tired in the set of her mouth, the way she keeps rolling her shoulders like she’s trying to shake off a weight no one else can see.
“Come on,” Cotton says, reaching for the remote. “We need a palate cleanser. Christmas trash or baking shows?”
“There was this serial killer documentary I wanted to watch—” Twig starts.
“No,” three voices say at once.
Cotton clicks on some holiday movie where everyone has perfect teeth and emotional epiphanies in under ninety minutes. She leans into Brodie’s side. He drops his arm along the back of the couch, fingers absently drawing circles on her shoulder.
Twig watches them for a moment, something unreadable in her eyes.
“You two are disgusting,” she says.
“Thank you,” Cotton says serenely.
Brodie smirks. “Don’t worry, macushla. We’ll tone it down so we don’t scandalize the guests.”
“Please don’t,” Twig says. “If I stop rolling my eyes at you, I’ll start thinking about other things.”
Her gaze flicks toward me, then away.
I pretend not to notice.
We get about half an hour into the movie before Cotton starts yawning in earnest. Brodie shepherds her upstairs, murmuring something about feet and rest and “I’ve got you, macushla,” leaving me and Twig alone with flickering firelight and a cartoonishly good-looking couple on the TV arguing about mistletoe.
“You can go to bed, you know,” Twig says after a while, eyes on the screen. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust if left unattended for ten minutes.”
“Not taking that bet,” I say.
She snorts softly. “Control freak.”
“I prefer ‘experienced risk assessor,’” I say.
She glances over at me, then down at her hands. Her fingers are worrying the seam of the blanket in her lap.
“Earlier,” she says quietly, “when you said…he doesn’t get to define me. You…meant that?”
It’s the second time she’s asked. The repeat tells me it matters more than she wants it to.
I lean forward, forearms on my knees.
“Yeah,” I say. “I meant it.”
Her throat works as she swallows. She looks back at the TV, but I can tell she’s not seeing it.
“Too late,” she says, after a beat. “He already did. Last year. Jason, then Henry. I went from being ‘that weird Gentry girl who lives in the library’ to ‘the girl who helped catch a serial killer.’ People don’t see me without seeing that on top.”
“And?” I ask.
“And now he’s trying to flip it,” she says. “Make it so when people say my name, it’s ‘Henry’s little bird’ instead. Like he’s the reason I matter. Like I’m one of his stories.”
“Twiggy,” I say.
She keeps staring straight ahead.
“You were someone long before he decided to point his broken attention at you,” I say. “You’re still that someone now. What you did with the mountain, what you’ve done for other cases—that’s yours. He doesn’t get to take credit because he’s mad you shined a light on his mess.”
Her jaw tightens.
“You say that like it’s easy,” she murmurs.
“I say that like it’s true,” I reply. “Whether it’s easy or not is a separate fight. And you don’t have to fight it alone.”
She goes quiet.
Then, slowly, she shifts on the couch, bringing her legs up, turning to face me more directly. One hand curls around the edge of the blanket, pulling it tighter over her knees.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why what?”
“Why don’t I have to fight it alone?” she presses. “You’re Kael’s guy. You come in, break things, build a fence, and leave. That’s the job. Why are you…” She gestures, frustrated. “Why are you here in my friend’s very ridiculous house, watching Hallmark movies and talking about my feelings?”
She probably doesn’t mean it to sound as aggressive as it does. Her defensiveness is protection.
I could give her the simple answer: Because Kael asked. Because Brady needed someone ECI trusts in the room. Because it’s the right thing to do.
All true. None of it’s the whole answer, though.
“Because you’re not a job,” I say.
She barks out a laugh. “That’s objectively wrong.”
“You’re a situation,” I amend.
“Wow,” she says. “Upgraded from job to situation. Be still my heart.”
“You know what I mean,” I say.
“I really don’t,” she says. “Explain it to me like I’m five, please. I’m tired.”
I exhale, long.
“Most people I protect,” I say slowly, “are trying to disappear. They want less of themselves in the world. Fewer ripples. They let me draw the lines, and then they stay inside them because it’s safer.”
She doesn’t interrupt. That alone is telling.
“You’re the opposite,” I continue. “You lean into the danger if it means getting answers. You make more ripples. You take the lines I draw and start asking how to use them like trip wires instead of walls. It’s…infuriating.”
Her mouth curves, just a little. “Compliment accepted.”
“It’s more than that,” I say. “You’re not a file I can close when we catch him. You’re…Tallulah.”
The word hangs there, bigger than it should be.
Her eyes find mine again. Hold.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” she asks, voice very soft.
“Yeah,” I say. “It means if Henry wants to keep running his mouth at you, he has to go through me.”
We stare at each other. The movie drones on in the background, some nonsense about a snowball fight turning into a declaration of love.
Her hand, under the blanket, inches toward the edge of the cushion. Hesitates.
Then, instead of stopping, she shifts.
Slowly, Twiggy uncurls from her end of the couch and slides across the cushions, blanket dragging with her.
It’s not graceful. It’s determined. One knee nudges my thigh, then the other, until she’s wedged in the space between my chair and the sofa, half-kneeling, half perched on the arm, close enough that I can see the faint scatter of freckles across her nose.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
I should say something flippant. Something that puts space back between us.
I don’t.
My hand finds her waist instead, fingers sinking into soft cotton and softer skin beneath it, steadying her. She sways closer, like gravity’s got opinions, and before my brain can veto the move, she leans in that last inch.
Her mouth brushes mine.
It’s light, at first. Barely there. But it’s not an accident.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
I could pull back. I should.
Instead, I catch her with my other hand at the back of her neck and claim her mouth properly.
She makes a quiet sound against my mouth—surprised, breathy—and then she’s clutching at my shirt, cold fingers fisting in the fabric as she leans into me.
The blanket slips; I feel the press of her ribs, the sharp little jut of her hip as she ends up half in my lap, knee braced against the outside of my thigh.
The contact isn’t simple anymore.
It’s heat and static and the taste of sugar from whatever cocoa Cotton forced on her earlier. It’s the thud of her pulse against my thumb where it rests just under her jaw. It’s the way she tilts her head like she’s trying to figure out how to get closer when we’re already chest to chest.
I breathe her in and let myself have it—for one long, reckless stretch of heartbeats.
Then every promise I’ve made to other people slams back into place.
Kael. Brodie. Stay away from the cousin. Don’t touch the asset. Don’t make this harder than it already is.
I tear my mouth from hers, but I don’t shove her back. I just press my forehead to hers, eyes shut, breathing hard and ragged like I’ve run five miles.
“Tink,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I like. “We shouldn’t—we can’t—”
“I know,” she whispers, which is a lie, because her hands are still twisted in my shirt and she’s still in my lap, and every line in my body is screaming that this is exactly what we need to be doing.
It’s what we were made for.
We sit like that for three breaths. Four. My thumb keeps drawing slow, betraying circles against the small of her back, like I haven’t gotten the memo.
Then she eases away, inch by inch. My hands fall back to my own knees like someone cut the strings.
“I should go claim the office before Cotton decides I’m sleeping in the barn,” she says. Her voice is steadier than mine, which is impressive, considering I’m the one who’s supposed to be trained for high-pressure situations.
“You’re in the room with one door,” I say. “I’m in the den. If anything goes wrong, it hits me first.”
“Very noble,” she says, tugging the blanket tighter around herself like armor.
“Very practical,” I correct.
She stands, still flushed, eyes a little too bright. At the doorway, she pauses and glances back.
“Goodnight, Bran,” she says softly.
“Night, Gentry,” I reply.
She disappears down the hall.
I sink back into the chair, jaw clenched, flexing my fingers once like I can still feel the shape of her waist there. My mouth still tastes like her, and that’s a problem I can’t shoot my way out of.
The monster out there can have some of my attention.
Tallulah Gentry?
She’s got more than that, and I’m not sure there’s a word on any list for what that means yet.