Wicked Games (Dark Refuge #2)

Chapter 1

She bent to peer through the oven window. The cloudy, brownish glass—fogged since grade school—revealed nothing, and she felt foolish for trying. Against all the rules, she cracked the door open for a peek.

“Not again!” she groaned, yanking the door wide—hopeful anticipation collapsing into disappointment.

Despite tiptoeing around the house for the last twenty-eight minutes, and being careful to limit vibrations and loud noises, her efforts were in vain. Instead of the two tall, golden layers she needed to pass next week’s exam, twin cratered flops stared back at her.

Emily twisted her hair into a rope and slung it over one shoulder before pulling on the oven mitts. With the practiced motion of someone who had failed this more than once, she hauled the pans out, dropped them on the cooktop with a clatter, then kicked the door shut with her foot.

For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out where she’d gone wrong. In six tries, she’d had six disasters, and the final exam was only a few days away. If she couldn’t bake a simple layer cake, how was she supposed to graduate, let alone land a job?

“Maybe I’ll just wash dishes,” she grumbled, stripping off the mitts. “What five-star restaurant is going to hire a chef who can’t bake a cake?”

Her phone lay open on the counter, the article she’d been consulting still glowing, “The Most Common Mistakes in Sunken Cakes.” She skimmed the bulleted points for the hundredth time.

Use fresh ingredients, especially baking powder.

“I did that.”

Measure carefully.

“What was I going to do, guess?” she muttered with dripping sarcasm.

She rolled her eyes at the next bullet.

Mix the ingredients in the specified order. Remember, baking is essentially a chemistry experiment.

“Really? Tell me something I don’t know!”

She slammed her phone onto the countertop then dropped forward onto her elbows with her head in her hands. “I did everything the freaking article said to do, and it still caved in.”

The only item on the list she had no control over was the oven itself.

Lifting her head, she glared at the thirty-year-old oven.

It had baked its share of cakes for her mother, all of them works of art.

Her dad had replaced the element at least twice.

Ages ago, she recalled him saying the thing was on its last legs and her mother deserved to have a new one, but he never got around to it.

Now, with both her parents gone and bills piled high, replacing it wasn’t an option.

On a student budget, a new oven was impossible, and she wouldn’t ask Ethan to help.

He’d just made detective; for the first time in years, he could save a few bucks from his paycheck.

He didn’t need to spend them on a new oven when the old one still served its purpose—though not well.

She stood, eyes closed, breath trembling. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered. “I wish I had just a hint of your magic.”

Although she had no formal training, her mother had a knack for baking.

Once Emily, her youngest of two, started school, she’d gone to work part time at The Sweet Spot, the bakery on the corner.

A few years after that, when the owner retired, she’d bought him out.

Her father teasingly rued the day and blamed his twenty-pound weight gain on it.

That, and the triple-chocolate layer cake she’d perfected.

Emily had inherited her mama’s hair, eyes, and youthful appearance, often mistaken for being a decade younger than she was. They were good things, but not what she needed now—her golden baking touch.

As she was reaching for the oven mitts once again, intending to dump the double disasters in the trash, the doorbell rang.

Em leaned forward and looked right. From this angle, she could see her front door.

Through the diamond-shaped window, she could make out two heads, but the plexiglass had yellowed almost as much as the oven window, and, with the porch light off, she couldn’t tell anything more than one of her visitors was wearing a hat.

She glanced at the clock—the one on the wall that actually worked. Ten thirty. Who came calling at this hour?

Curiosity and a prickle of dread propelled her forward. She slid the chain into place and cracked the door. Instantly, a knot formed in the pit of her stomach seeing two uniformed policemen standing on the small porch.

“Emily Peterson?” the taller man asked.

“Yes,” she croaked, her mouth and throat gone dry.

“I’m sorry to disturb you this late, Miss Peterson, but might we have a word?”

She nodded, closed the door to release the chain, then opened it again.

“What’s this about?” she asked, but deep down, she knew.

She’d grown up with cops. Her father had been a detective, and her brother had followed in his footsteps.

Even without introductions, she recognized the captain’s insignia and the chaplain’s collar.

There was only one thing that would bring them to a family member’s door this late.

“This isn’t a good time.” She waved toward the kitchen. “I’ve got something in the oven.”

It was a lie, but she’d say anything to make them go away.

“We’ll only be a few minutes,” the captain assured her. “May we come in?”

Short of refusing and slamming the door in their faces, she opened it wider and waved them inside.

“I’m Chaplain Roberts,” the older of the two said. “You may not remember me. It’s been a while, and the circumstances weren’t good. It is with sincere regret that circumstances have me knocking on your door once again.”

Memory slammed into her. Twenty-two months earlier, the same man, with the same chaplain’s patch on his sleeve, had delivered the news of her parents’ deaths. She swayed, bracing against the door.

“It’s Ethan,” she stated, wasting no time with a question his grim-faced expression and all the other clues had already answered.

The captain nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Her world tilted. “What happened?” she whispered.

“We’re still investigating,” he explained, clearly hedging. “He stumbled upon a drug cache. His actions prevented millions’ worth from reaching the streets—”

“Specifically,” Emily cut in. “What happened to him?”

The chaplain’s mouth tightened. “I don’t think it’s necessary—”

“It is,” she insisted. “I need to know.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the captain. When the man gave a slight nod, he relented. “Your brother was shot in the chest. By the time help arrived… I’m sorry.”

That Ethan died bravely while protecting his community wasn’t surprising but brought her little consolation.

She couldn’t pick up the phone and call a dead hero or turn to him for support on the upcoming anniversary of their parents’ death.

No more holidays, none of the cream-filled puffed pastries he loved on his birthday, no brother in the crowd on her graduation day, and her future children would never know their amazing uncle.

His selfless sacrifice didn’t bring her any comfort. If anything, it pissed her the hell off because it robbed her of her only remaining family.

The crushing weight of sorrow caused her knees to wobble. Over the pounding of her heart, she heard a car door slam. Heavy footsteps thudded on the sidewalk. She didn’t bother looking up; they didn’t belong to Ethan. He was gone.

“What the hell, Cap? I left you a message asking you to wait until I got here.”

“Sorry, Yarborough. I got nothing.”

Strong arms swept her up and carried her to the couch. Instead of setting her down, Alec sank with her in his lap, holding her close. He pressed his lips to her hair, his voice raw as he whispered, “I wanted to be here when you found out.”

Through her tears, Emily met his troubled blue eyes. Alec. Ethan’s best friend since childhood.

“First Mama and Daddy, now... I can’t do this,” she whispered brokenly. “Not again. Not alone.”

His embrace tightened. “You’re not alone, sweetheart. You’ve got me—whenever and however you need me. I promise.”

Gratitude surged with anguish. She clung to him, fingers fisting his coat as if it could hold her together. He’d been protective of her since she was a girl. The white knight of her dreams—steadfast and sure—but even he couldn’t shield her from the agony of loss.

His breath warmed her neck, his body solid and real, a fragile comfort amid the devastation.

But she couldn’t ignore the hard press of his service weapon digging into her breast—a stark reminder of the badge he carried.

Identical to Ethan’s. If it could steal her brother and father away from her, it could steal him too.

He rocked her, whispering words she couldn’t hear over her grief. Not only for Ethan’s loss but for the fear that someday men in uniform would come to her door again—this time for Alec, the boy she’d loved since pigtails and scraped knees.

When that day came, she’d truly be alone. How would she survive?

What control she had left gave way. With a wrenching sob, Emily buried her face in his neck as the floodgates opened.