Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
TWIGGY
Sunlight filtering through the slatted blinds drags me up out of sleep in slow, stubborn increments.
First comes the awareness that this is not my bed. The mattress is softer, the sheets smoother, the faint smell of pine and wood smoke and Bran clinging to the air.
Then the memory of where I am—and why—clicks into place.
Cabin. Tennessee. Hiding, but not hiding. Running, but not alone.
Finally, everything from last night slams back into my brain in one long, molten reel.
The way his mouth felt on me, reverent and filthy and full of single-minded intent.
The way his voice went rough when he told me to come.
The moment he pushed inside me and the world narrowed down to stretch and shock and him.
My muscles protest as I shift, a chorus of delicious aches singing through my thighs, my hips, my core. Every part of me feels used and claimed and loose at the same time, like someone took me apart carefully and put me back together better.
My body remembers him before my brain fully does, and my pulse kicks up between my legs, a deep, slow throb.
If I thought I could move without everything seizing, I’d want more.
Who am I kidding? I want more even if I can’t move.
Eyes still closed, I slide my hand across the cool percale, fingers searching for Bran’s solid heat.
Nothing.
My fingers skate over empty sheet and a faint indentation in the pillow where his head should be. My eyes pop open.
Well, shit.
The immediate sting lands low in my chest before my logic boots up. Of course he’s not still in bed. He’s not a lounge-around-all-day guy. He’s Irish mob, not a cat who naps on sun-warmed windowsills.
Still. A tiny, traitorous part of me had liked the idea of waking up tangled around him.
Shoving down the first flicker of hurt, I roll out of bed with a wince and pad to the bathroom. My hair is a Medusa situation; I tame it into a messy bun that at least looks intentional. I brush my teeth until the taste of sleep—and Bran—is replaced by mint.
The scratch on my arm is healing nicely, the angry red fading to a tender line. I peel off the Band-Aid and flex experimentally. It twinges, but not in a way that feels worrying. I decide to leave it uncovered today. A little battle scar. Very “final girl.”
Back in the bedroom, I open the dresser and rifle through Bran’s things for something to wear. My leggings and sweater from yesterday are still in a sad, rumpled heap on the floor; the idea of putting them back on over sex-sweaty skin makes my sensory issues hiss.
My fingers land on a T-shirt that’s soft from a hundred washes, gray with a faded logo from some Irish pub. It smells like detergent and Bran and a faint, grounding hint of his cologne.
Good enough.
I tug it over my head. It falls to mid-thigh on me, sleeves swallowing my hands. I find a pair of thick socks in the drawer and pull them up to my knees, the wool scratching just enough to feel like pressure, not irritation.
Scratch, covered. Sensory system, appeased.
Virginity, long gone.
Do not think about that right now, Twig.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and open the bedroom door.
Bran stands at the island, big and solid and very much here. Last night’s whiskey glass sits empty by his elbow. In front of him, a platter of raw steaks gleams red as he pauses mid-brush with olive oil.
His gaze lifts. It tracks down my bare legs, over the hem of his T-shirt, lingers at the way it hangs off my shoulders. Heat flares in his eyes, dark and fast, before he reins it in and looks back at the meat like he didn’t just mentally strip me with one glance.
“Morning.” His voice is rough, gravel scraping the edges of the word.
Something in my chest unclenches.
“Good morning,” I murmur, skirting around him to open the fridge.
Right. Be normal. Be cool.
So you had sex last night. A lot of sex. That doesn’t mean anything has to be weird. People do that. Adults. They have stress-induced, proximity-induced, “we might die soon so let’s enjoy this” sex and then return to regularly scheduled programming.
Maybe I should say that out loud. Set his mind at ease. Maybe he woke up panicking that because I was a virgin, I’m going to start doodling his last name in my notebook and building wedding spreadsheets.
And the thing is, I don’t want or need a ring. I’m not some fainting maiden, fanning herself because she’s “ruined.” I made a choice. I’d make it again.
I’m capable of handling this like an adult.
My fingers fidget on the refrigerator handle; my brain picks that moment to replay the way he’d looked when he realized—when we both realized—what I hadn’t told him.
His face had gone shock-white under his tan for a second, genuine horror flashing there like I’d thrown a brick at his moral code.
I gnaw on my lower lip, scanning the contents of the fridge. Orange juice. Eggs. Some kind of greens. Cheese.
No donuts. Rude.
Cold air prickles over my bare legs; my nipples pebble under the T-shirt in a way that has nothing to do with Bran and everything to do with the temperature. Totally.
The silence stretches, thin and taut. The cabin feels suddenly smaller, all that sex and danger and unsaid stuff hanging in the air like fog.
I can’t take it.
“You don’t have to worry about me being a nuisance,” I blurt, grabbing the juice and using it as a shield.
“I want you to know last night wasn’t just a one-off for me,” Bran says at the exact same time.
We both stop.
His words hit my brain half a beat late. “What?” I turn, clutching the juice carton like a life raft.
Bran is staring at me like I just announced I was moving to Antarctica with Henry for a roommate. A dark frown carves through the dimples in his cheeks, making them disappear.
Dimples. The nerve of this man.
“A nuisance?” he repeats, incredulous. “Are you daft, woman?”
My mouth opens. Shuts. Reboots. “I didn’t mean—I just didn’t want you to think—”
The words tangle and die under the weight of his glower, which is growing blacker by the second.
“Didn’t want me to think what, exactly?” he presses.
“That I expected anything,” I blurt. “You know. Because we had sex.”
There. Said it. Out loud. Might as well tattoo it across my forehead.
Without a word, Bran sets down the jar of seasoning he’d been using. The move is precise, almost careful, like he’s making sure he doesn’t slam it hard enough to break glass.
He walks to the sink, turns on the water, and washes his hands thoroughly—backs, palms, between the fingers—like he’s stalling for time or bleeding off temper. He dries them on a dish towel with the same methodical focus.
Then he comes to stand right in front of me.
Close enough that all I can see is chest. Heat. Him.
He takes the juice bottle from my hand, sets it behind me on the counter, effectively caging me in with his body, the counter at my back, the solid line of him in front.
Then he cups my face in his hands. His palms engulf my jaw, thumbs resting at the hinge, fingers curling back toward my ears. He tips my face up, and I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
Green and gold and very, very serious.
“I mean, I just—”
“Tallulah,” he says quietly. “Shut up.”
Before I can argue about being told to shut up in my own head, he kisses me.
Not quick. Not “just to prove a point.”
He kisses me like he’s dismantling every stupid, self-protective thing I just said. His mouth covers mine, hot and deliberate, tongue sliding against mine in a way that short-circuits my brain completely.
My hands find his wrists, fingers wrapping around the thick tendons there more for balance than to push him away. My knees go a little weak.
By the time he lifts his head, I’m dizzy and a little breathless, staring up at him like he’s the only coherent thing in the room.
“Does that feel like I think you’re a nuisance?” he asks softly.
I manage a tiny shake of my head. No. No, it really doesn’t.
“Good,” he says. His thumbs stroke once along my jaw before he drops his hands. “Because I don’t. And Tallulah?”
My brow furrows, my earlier sentence already disintegrating under the warmth in his tone.
“Expect something,” he continues. “When a man takes you to bed, you better damn well expect the fucking moon and stars. Otherwise, he has no business being in your bed.”
Oh.
Warmth flares in my chest, spreading outward in a slow, creeping tide until my ears buzz, my eyes sting, my whole body feels like it’s been plugged into some new power source.
“You can’t just say things like that before coffee,” I mutter, because crying seems like a bit much.
One corner of his mouth kicks up. “Now,” he says, voice going brisk again as if he didn’t just rearrange my emotional furniture, “go sit—all the way over there, so I’m not tempted—and let me get these steaks cooked.”
“Steak for breakfast,” I say, because words are easier than feelings. “That’s…different.”
“Not really,” he replies, turning back to the stove. He lays the steaks in a cast iron pan; the sizzle is loud in the quiet cabin. “It’s healthier to eat a savory breakfast than one full of carbs and sugar.”
I squint at him. “What if I don’t care about eating healthy?”
“I do care about you eating healthy. Karla’s donuts are not a food group,” he says without looking back, because of course he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “And it’s close to noon anyway, so there’s that.”
My heart does a stupid little tumble. He noticed the donut thing. He noticed…me.
“Good enough,” I say, backing away toward the sofa. I pluck at the hem of his T-shirt, suddenly aware that I’m bare underneath. “Thank you.”
“For?” He reaches into the cabinet and pulls down a couple of plates, movements efficient.
“For caring,” I say, staring hard at my knees. “I haven’t had anyone do that since Mom died, so…thanks.”
There’s a pause—a soft little hitch in the rhythm of his motions.
A moment later, his shadow falls across me again. I look up just in time to see him lean down and press another kiss to my mouth, brief and achingly gentle.