Chapter 26 #2
“You’ve got me now,” he says simply.
The words punch straight through my sternum.
I swallow hard and nod, because if I try to speak, I might say something like please don’t die and we are not there yet.
After we eat—steak for him, steak and eggs and a token piece of toast for me, because apparently I’m not allowed to be pure goblin anymore—Bran shrugs into his jacket.
“Stay inside,” he says, eyes flicking automatically to the windows, the tree line beyond. “I’m going to walk the perimeter.”
“Perimeter,” I echo, rolling the word around. “Very tactical.”
“Very basic,” he counters. “Lock the door behind me. Don’t open it for anyone but me or Scully. If someone else shows up, you call Brady before you even think about being polite.”
“Yes, Dad,” I say, but I lock the door as soon as he steps out anyway.
The cabin is quiet in his absence. Too quiet. The silence tries to creep under my skin, bring with it memories I’m not interested in replaying. Hoofbeats in the night. The river. Miguel in the hay.
Nope.
I clean up the dishes instead. Hot water, soap, the clink of plates. There’s something soothing in the order of it—input, action, clear result. Dishes go from dirty to clean. Problem solved. Would that serial killers were that straightforward.
When the kitchen is back to its relatively tidy baseline, I look around for something to do that doesn’t involve spiraling.
My gaze lands on a cabinet near the TV.
Curious, I tug it open.
Jackpot.
Board games. Card decks. A few paperback novels with cracked spines, a puzzle with half the pieces in a ziplock bag.
“You didn’t tell me you were hiding enrichment activities,” I mutter, crouching to scan the titles. Monopoly. Uno. A dog-eared copy of Risk. And then—“Oh, hello.”
Scrabble.
I pull it out with an unholy little thrill and carry it to the small dining table, rubbing my hands together in anticipation.
Bran Kelly has no idea what’s about to hit him.
By the time the front door opens again, I’ve set the board up, tiles face-down in their little draw area, letter racks ready. My leg bounces under the table, half from leftover adrenaline, half from excitement.
Bran steps inside, bringing a gust of cold air with him. He scans automatically, eyes hitting the windows, the corners, then me.
His shoulders ease a notch when he sees nothing is on fire.
I hold up the Scrabble box like a prize. “Play with me?”
He kicks off his boots, one brow lifting. “Scrabble?”
“Yes.” I put every ounce of weaponized adorableness I have into my eyes. “Please. I need to distract my brain before it disassembles your security system for fun.”
That gets the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s my security system. I’ll be the one disassembling it, thanks.”
“So that’s not a no,” I point out.
He comes to the table, glances down at the board, then drags out a chair and sits. “Sure.”
I blink. “Sure? That’s it? No reluctant grumbling about word nerd games? No macho posturing?”
He reaches for a tile rack. “Why would I posture about a game that lives in my own house?” He nods at the cabinet. “Those are my games. My furniture. My clothing you’re currently stealing.”
“Fair,” I concede, flopping into the chair across from him. “I just didn’t have you pegged as a board-game guy.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he says. “But I do think we should make things more interesting.”
Suspicion narrows my eyes. “Define interesting.”
He gestures for me to draw first. I scoop seven tiles, the familiar clack soothing.
“Loser of each round loses an article of clothing,” he says casually, arranging his own letters.
Heat rushes to my face. “So if my points for a word are twenty-seven, and you play a thirty-five-point word, I lose an article of clothing?”
“Correct.”
I glance down at myself. Oversized T-shirt. Knee socks. That’s…literally it.
“But I’m only wearing four things,” I protest. “Shirt, socks—”
He stretches out in his chair, bare foot nudging mine under the table, eyes sweeping lazily over me in a way that makes my skin prickle.
“I’m only wearing three,” he says. “Jeans, T-shirt, boxers. Scared?”
I straighten my spine. “When you put it like that…” I set my tiles on the rack. Zephyr stares back at me, all smug Z and high-value Y. “Do your worst.”
A smirk lurks at the corners of his lips, like he knows something I don’t. He nods at the board. “Ladies first.”
I hum, arranging letters.
Z E P H Y R slides into place across the center star, all pretty and smug and twenty-something points of meteorological cockiness.
“Sure,” I say, trying not to look too proud. “Not bad, huh?”
“Very nice,” he agrees, eyes flicking over it. He studies his rack, then starts laying down tiles like he’s assembling a weapon.
C A Z I Q U E.
My jaw drops. “That is not a word.”
He actually laughs. “Definitely a word. Cacique, adapted. Native American tribal leader. Or local politician in parts of Latin America.”
I hate him.
I also want to climb him like a tree.
I stare at the board unhappily, then huff and peel off one sock. “My foot’s gonna get cold,” I grumble.
Under the table, his hand finds my newly bare ankle and tugs my foot into his lap. His fingers wrap loosely around it, thumb stroking the arch and toes in lazy passes.
“I’ll keep it warm,” he says.
My brain short-circuits briefly.
“T-thanks,” I manage, staring very hard at my tiles to avoid spontaneously combusting.
Several moves later, it is very clear that Bran hustled me.
He’s not just good. He’s obnoxiously good. Every time I think I’ve played something clever, he swoops in with some ridiculous word that snakes along three existing ones and hits a triple letter score like he’s playing 3D chess and I’m working with Duplo blocks.
I’ve removed both socks and my panties, and the only thing standing between me and full nudity is his T-shirt.
The only thing Bran has removed is his own T-shirt.
Which, honestly, feels like a net loss for my concentration.
His chest is all broad planes and carved muscle and a light dusting of hair that I keep getting distracted by.
The scar on his left side doesn’t help—faint and puckered like an old gunshot, it draws my gaze every time he reaches for his tiles.
“This isn’t fair,” I complain, pushing back from the table to stand and shake my limbs out. “How are you so good at this? No one ever beats me.”
Bran rolls one shoulder lazily. “I’m not an idiot,” he says. “Even though the institution is overrated, I did go to college, you know. I have a master’s in history.”
I blink. Hard. “What?”
He quirks a brow. “Surprised?”
“You…why history?” I ask, fingers automatically playing with the hem of the T-shirt to give my hands something to do besides groping him.
“I was going to teach,” he says, eyes dark and amused. “Decided I don’t have the temperament for it.”
Images flash through my mind—Bran in a classroom, sleeves rolled, glasses maybe, students either terrified or in love with him, probably both.
“Yeah, I can see that,” I murmur faintly.
His gaze drops deliberately to where my fingers are fisting the hem. “Remove the shirt, Tallulah.”
Every nerve ending wakes up at once.
He’s sitting back in his chair, legs spread, hands resting easy on his thighs. But there’s nothing relaxed about his eyes. They’re hot and heavy and fixed on me.
For a second, panic and power war in my chest.
Then I catch the quick dart of his tongue over his lower lip, see the way his fingers flex, and the scales tip.
He wants this. He wants me.
And for once in my life, I’m not going to be the only one who feels exposed.
Slowly, I curl my fingers under the hem and start to draw it up over my thighs. The air feels cooler against the strip of newly bare skin; goosebumps race up in the shirt’s wake.
Bran’s gaze follows the movement like it’s the only thing happening in the world.
Boldness flares—sharp, bright, new.
Keeping my eyes on his, I peel the T-shirt over my head and let it drop.
I stand there completely naked, the cabin air kissing every inch of me. The old Tallulah would have crossed her arms, tried to hide, cracked a joke.
This Tallulah lets him look.
Bran’s pupils blow wide. His jaw tightens; his fingers flex again on his thighs like he’s physically holding himself in place.
“Jesus,” he says softly, like a prayer and a curse in one.
Heat streaks through me, not embarrassment this time but something very close to triumph.
Turning on my heel, I stroll toward the bedroom, not bothering to hide the sway of my hips.
“I think the game is over,” I toss over my shoulder.
Behind me, the chair scrapes back in a rush. Heavy footsteps follow, quick and certain.
Bran may have won Scrabble.
But in this particular game between us?
I’m definitely the one holding all the tiles.