Chapter 21 #2
She tilts her head. “Why are you insisting on calling me Tallulah, for real? I hate that name.”
Because you’re more than a tally mark on some bastard’s kill sheet.
I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I nod toward her bicep. In the porch light earlier, I’d caught a glimpse of something dark on her sleeve; now, under the cabin lights, I see the faint rusty stain more clearly.
“Let me see your arm.”
She looks down, frowns. “It’s nothing.”
“Let. Me. See.”
She sighs, twisting her head to get a better look, and pulls the shirt down over her shoulder. There’s a torn place on the sleeve, and underneath it, a long, shallow scrape tracks along the outside of her arm.
“It’s from a hook in the linen closet,” she mutters. “Something they hang things on, I guess…I pressed alongside it when we were all squeezing in there. I felt it snag but didn’t realize it scraped me.”
The skin around it is pink and crusted with old blood. Nothing serious. Still, something in me doesn’t like the idea of Henry Thurston being the only one to mark her, even indirectly.
“Take your shirt off,” I say.
Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“I need to see how far it goes,” I lie bluntly. “You can keep your bra on, hacker girl. I’m not trying to cop a feel here.”
Her cheeks flush, but after a second she grabs the hem of the shirt and peels it over her head, moving carefully so she doesn’t crack the scab.
She hesitates when the cotton catches on the scrape.
I step in, fingers gentle as I help ease the sleeve past the wound, doing my best to keep my eyes on her arm and not on the way her breasts spill over the top of a plain black bra.
So far, my self-control is losing.
“I need you up here,” I say, voice a little rough. Without waiting for an argument, I lift her onto the counter so the scrape is at a better angle, her legs dangling, toes brushing the cabinet doors.
She makes a soft sound, more surprise than protest, and braces her hands lightly on my shoulders for balance. The heat of her palms burns through my shirt.
I turn to the sink before I can do something stupid and dampen a dishtowel with warm water. “Here. Work on cleaning it while I get some alcohol and bandages.”
She takes the cloth silently and starts wiping gingerly at the dried blood. I leave her there and head to the bathroom.
I keep the cabin well-stocked for the infrequent trips I make—canned food, extra clothing, basic medical supplies. I hauled it all in myself over a couple summers when Kael insisted I needed a “legitimate” source of income and a place to disappear that didn’t involve his building.
I sift through a plastic bin now, pulling out a strip of bandages, a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, antibacterial ointment. On my way back through the bedroom, I grab a clean T-shirt from the dresser, one of mine.
Back in the kitchen, Tally is sitting very still on the counter. Her arm is red but clean, the scrape clearly visible now in the overhead light—ugly but shallow.
“This should heal fast,” I tell her, pouring a thin stream of alcohol over it.
She hisses, shoulders jerking. “Sadist.”
“Baby,” I mutter.
“Tis but a scratch,” she murmurs, lips twitching despite everything.
I snort. “You’ve had worse, right.”
“Right.”
Trying to be gentler than I’m used to, I dab it dry, smooth a swipe of ointment over it, and wrap it in gauze. The whole time, I’m close enough to smell her—shampoo and coffee and something sharp underneath, like ozone before a storm.
“Done,” I say, stepping back half a step. “You’ll live.”
“Tragic,” she says. Her voice is softer now. She looks down at the T-shirt in my hand. “That for me?”
“Unless you want to sleep in blood and panic sweat, yeah.”
Her nose wrinkles. “When you put it like that…”
I help her draw the shirt over her head, careful of the bandage, and try not to notice how it hangs on her frame. My shirts are big on most people. They’re huge on her, swallowing her waist, sleeves skimming past her elbows.
It feels like a brand.
She hops down from the counter before I can offer a hand, bare feet touching the cool wood. “Thank you,” she says. It sounds like she means more than just the bandage.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I drop down onto the couch and pick up the remote.
“To answer your earlier question…” I flip the TV on, volume low. “Tallulah’s pretty. Old-fashioned. Unique.”
She pads over and settles on the other end of the couch, tucking her feet under her. “It’s never felt like me,” she complains. “I don’t think you realize what a favor you did when you gave me that awful nickname.”
“Twig?” I land on a rerun of a football game and lean back. “You were all skin and bones back then.”
“It morphed into Twiggy,” she says. “Someone’s mother said I reminded her of a model by that name and after that, it stuck.” Her expression turns distant, just for a second. “I could pretend I was skinny on purpose.”
We’re quiet for a while, the flicker of the TV painting the walls in blue and white. The announcers drone on about yardage and penalties. I couldn’t care less.
I’m too aware of her, a foot away. The way she keeps rubbing her thumb over the edge of the bandage. The way her shoulders are still too high, like her body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’re not on high alert for the next few minutes.
Her fingers find a frayed thread on her leggings and start twisting it.
When I can’t take it anymore, I reach over and cover her hand with mine, stilling the restless motion.
“Twig doesn’t fit you anymore,” I say quietly. “You’re a beautiful, unusual, fascinating woman, Tallulah.”
The words are out before I can pull them back. I pause, inwardly cursing myself, but it’s too late.
“And it’s driving me crazy,” I add, because apparently we’re committing to bad decisions tonight, “to sit here beside you and not touch you.”
Her body goes still as stone, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster under my T-shirt. Beneath my palm, her fingers curl against her knee.
“What are you thinking right now?” I ask. I know I’m playing with fire. I know exactly where this road leads. I’m chasing a fall that could leave both of us in pieces.
She shakes her head a little, a humorless huff of breath escaping. “I’m thinking…we…Kael would kill you.”
She doesn’t say I don’t want this. She doesn’t say I’m not interested.
She says Kael.
I can’t help but notice the order of priorities there.
I drag my gaze back to the TV. A ref throws a flag. The crowd roars. It all feels very far away.
“I’m aware,” I say.
Seconds stretch, strung tight with tension arcing between us. My hand is still on hers; hers is still under it.
I should get up. Put space between us. Call Kael, give him an update, let his irritation douse whatever this is with cold reality.
Instead, I sit there, feeling every stanza of her breathing, until my own self-preservation finally kicks in.
“I need to call him,” I say, forcing my hand to let go. “Give him the rundown. Go to bed, Tallulah.”
The second my palm lifts, she bolts upright like a spooked deer. “Right. Goodnight, then.” She flees—there’s no other word for it—into the bedroom, swinging the door shut behind her with more force than necessary.
I utter a short, bitter laugh and lean my head back against the couch.
I have no idea what possessed me. I should’ve kept my dumbass mouth shut.
Stupid.
After a minute, I fish my phone out of my pocket and thumb Kael’s number. He picks up on the third ring, voice rough with sleep and something else.
“It’s late,” he says.
He probably has a woman in his bed. He usually does.
“Just wanted to give you an update,” I say.
“Go.”
I keep my response short and to the point. “I brought Tallulah to my place in Tennessee. Things in Virginia escalated.”
He grunts. “Why didn’t you bring her here?”
Because I desperately need to sink my cock into her and I didn’t trust myself not to, with you watching.
The thought blindsides me, hot and ugly and true. I close my eyes, jaw clenching.
“I felt this was the safest place,” I say instead. “No ties to her here. No one outside your circle knows I own it. Harder to trace.”
“Are you saying you think he would come after her in Philly?” Kael asks, voice sharpening. “Let him. I’ll give him a warm welcome.”
“Tally found similar crimes all over the map,” I remind him. “Northern Virginia and beyond. He’s mobile. Predictable only in the sense that he follows his own logic. I thought it made more sense to take her somewhere random. Anonymous. Away from patterns he’s already comfortable with.”
“Mm,” Kael says. I can hear the gears turning on his end. “And that’s the only reason you took my cousin to a remote location instead of here, where I can keep an eye on her?”
“What other reason would I have, Boss?” I ask lightly.
“You tell me.”
I bite my tongue and say nothing. Babbling won’t help me, and it might reveal more than I want him to see.
Silence stretches. Then: “Send me everything you have on this bastard,” he says. “I’ll send someone to Virginia to work the situation from another angle. Might be time to put the fear of the Irish in this cunt fucker.”
“I’ll do it in the morning,” I say. “A lot of the intel is in your cousin’s head, and she’s gone to bed. Can you send her a computer, too? She’s been whining about it.”
A faint huff that might be a laugh. “I’ll have one couriered tomorrow. Keep her breathing, Bran.”
“That’s the plan.”
We hang up.
I let the phone drop onto my chest and exhale slowly, feeling like I just walked a tightrope between two towers with no net. Kael’s no idiot.
He’s also not forgiving.
I’m going to have to tread carefully over the next week, put this inconvenient attraction back in the box where it belongs.
Otherwise, Tallulah Gentry won’t be the only one in mortal danger.