Page 54 of The Dark Before Light

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

He’s quiet for a while, then says, “You match.”

I scowl at him. “What?”

Shrugging his gargantuan shoulders, he gives me a look I’ve never seen on his face. Close to sympathy. Then he blows my mind with the most emotional speech he’s ever made.

“You and Stirling—you fit. Anyone with eyes can see it, hear it when you talk to each other. Maybe this shit has always been easy for you in the past, but you’re not an easy man anymore, Kier—if you ever really were. And if Stirling were easy, she wouldn’t be your match.”

My throat feels funny. “You’ve gone soft, big man.”

He glowers. “I know it’s not an ideal situation, her being your therapist. Maybe if she were horrible at it, but she’s not. You’re at least twenty percent more tolerable since you started unloading your demons in her office.”

“Thanks,” I grouse.

“All I’m saying is I don’t think you should give up. Use that high IQ you supposedly have. Solve the equation or whatever.” He makes a disgusted sound. “The first event is next week. I’m done talking.”

I look away. Stare at nothing. Think about everything.

Finally, I say, “Set it up.”

Sven doesn’t reply; he doesn’t need to. This was his harebrained idea, and I’ll be sure to remind him when it blows up in my face.

Guess I’m going back to Crossroads.

Chapter 16

Talia

On Wednesday, Kieran meets me at the warehouse. I take him to a different room, one aligned with creation rather than destruction.

“You have some options,” I tell him as he surveys the worktables. “You can make a mosaic, sand and prep furniture for repainting, or carve a piece of wood. If none of those appeal to you, I can teach you the basics of crochet or we can move to a room with canvases and paint.”

He gives me a disbelieving look. “I’m not an artist.”

“It’s about the process, not the end result. No one expects you to have a showing at LACMA next month.” I pause. “I think you should try carving something.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

His gaze narrows. I hold eye contact, projecting calm when inside I’m a whirlwind. Finally, he nods. “Okay. As long as you do it with me.”

“Deal.”

We settle side by side on stools at the woodcarving station. After I go through the basics—what tools to use, how to carve with the grain, and different types of cuts—I give him a laminated sheet with easy instructions to make basic shapes out of a two-inch block.

“What are you going to make?” he asks, twirling a V-shaped chisel in his fingers.

I grab a block for myself. “No idea.”

He smirks. “Let me guess, the wood will speak to you and tell you what shape it wants to take?”

“Definitely not. I’m horrible at carving, actually.” I lift my hand to show him the small scar at the base of my palm. “Case in point.”

Before I can read his intent, warm fingers encircle my wrist and draw my hand toward his face. Heat radiates up my arm, sparkling energy that swirls to my nipples and chokes my airway. My mind blanks.

“I know,” he murmurs, eyes on the scar that hovers dangerously close to his mouth. “I’m breaking rules.”

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