Page 15 of The Dark Before Light

I don’t miss the slight emphasis on my name. Nor am I able to completely ignore a burst of dangerous curiosity. An image flashes in my mind—alarming, provocative—and I pick it up and throw it much as I did the wine bottle. Thankfully, it, too, smashes on impact.

“No drinking. Monday morning, you’ll go back to work. Keep your workdays under ten hours. Exercise in the mornings. Eat three healthy meals. Go to sleep early. Be at my office at seven p.m. on Wednesday.”

He bares his teeth. “Oh? Is that all?”

I lift a hand. “Before you throw another tantrum, consider something for me. Would you be this offended if a man of my qualifications gave you the same instructions?”

His chest rises, then falls as he slowly exhales. Chagrin darkens the skin of his neck. “Probably not, no.”

I smile. “Kudos for self-awareness. You have my number. Feel free to call me if you need to. Otherwise, I’ll see you Wednesday. Any questions?”

He sighs. “No.”

“Then we’ll call it a night.”

I step outside the room and wait for him to join me. He emerges a minute later sans jumpsuit, his sweatshirt back on. The hood is up, dark hair fanning his cheeks. My heart snaps against my ribs; I stare a beat too long.

“What?” he asks, eyes wary.

I think fast. “Just deciding whether or not to tell you I’m proud of the work you did tonight.”

He smirks. “Better not. Might go to my head.”

My lips press against a smile. We don’t speak as I walk him out. He doesn’t say goodbye, just slips into the back seat of his car after Sven opens the door for him. The man gives me a long look, then a nod that probably means something I’m too rattled to decipher. Dylan and Gabe hop into an identical BMW and I open the gate for their caravan.

Once they’re gone, the gate closed again, I lock up the warehouse and retreat to my car. I don’t start it, knowing I can’t drive until I allow myself to feel the effects of the last hour. To purge the emotional transference from watching Kieran destroy property with the same ruthless savagery he might have displayed against a hated enemy on a long-ago battlefield.

Fine tremors take ahold of my muscles. Energy with no outlet zings beneath my skin while delayed fear softens the edges of my vision. Inhaling slowly through my nose, I count to four, then release the breath from my mouth. I do it several times until intellect overcomes the primal response.

I’m not afraid of Kieran Hayes. I’m afraid for him—and, if I’m honest, for myself.

I’ve traveled many dark, twisted roads with my clients over the years. Some would say it’s my specialty. I’m an excavator of hidden realms, a hunter of the psyche’s most warped, stubborn treasures. But I’ve never felt so out of my depth. Never struggled so hard to remain safely outside the vortex of their pain.

And it’s only the first day.

Closing my eyes, I relive the peak of his rage. The repeated swing of a bat against a computer monitor on the floor. Muscles straining, lungs heaving like bellows. Blow after blow. A mindless machine. Then like a switch was flipped or a plug pulled, he stopped. The head of the bat clanked on the floor, the grip loose in his fingers. For thirty seconds, he stared at what he’d done.

Then he looked at me, and what I saw in his eyes… He might as well have been on his knees, begging me to save him. For those brief moments, he was unveiled. Raw and helpless and so exquisitely broken. Our prior roles fundamentally reversed.

“Fuck,” I whisper, thudding my forehead repeatedly against the steering wheel. The physical jolts are jarring rather than painful. As intended, they drag me from the rabbit hole of my thoughts.

Straightening, I start the car.

Chapter 5

Talia

Athirty-minute drive later, I punch in a code beside a black door in an alley off Wilshire in Beverly Hills. The pad turns green and I walk inside. Another hallway stretches before me, this one with soft, recessed lights and plush carpet. Abstract black-and-white photos hang in huge frames in the white spaces between four doors. A final door stands opposite me, padded in black leather. Muted thumps of music come from the attached club.

A door on my right opens and a man pokes his head out, a guarded expression melting to surprise and happiness when he sees me. Emerging fully, he closes the distance between us.

Tall and slender and almost inhumanly gorgeous, his white-blond hair is short on the sides and long on top, flopping artfully over his brow. The smile on his face soothes the burn beneath my skin—just like I knew it would.

“I could hardly believe it when I recognized your code. Welcome back.”

I want to smile but make myself frown instead. “You cut your beautiful hair.”

It used to be long, almost to his waist. When we were involved, one of my favorite things to do was brush and braid the silky strands. The new style makes him look his age—thirty-three. It also makes him look less like an angel who accidentally fell from heaven and more like one who dove intentionally. I’m not sure I like it.

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