Page 95 of The Dark Before Light

His lips twitch. “You got it. I’ll brief the new kids.”

As nightfall pushes a sunset of fiery orange and magenta into the Pacific, I step onto the back deck and approach Talia.

“Everyone’s gone.”

She looks over her shoulder with a wry smile. “They’re never really gone, though, are they?”

She tips her head to the right. Following her gaze, I squint into the shadows past the deck and see two shadowed figures walking down the property line.

I grimace, my gut sinking. “Once we’re inside and the alarm is on, they won’t come in unless there’s an emergency. But, ehm, you should know there’s video and audio surveillance in the house. Not the bathrooms, obviously, and I’ve already turned it off in my bedroom. I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot.”

My skin prickles with apprehension, dark thoughts intruding. What if she changes her mind? Decides it’s too much?

Talia closes the distance between us with purposeful steps. She flattens herself to my chest, her arms snaking around my middle and tightening. Gratitude and relief almost take me to my knees. I palm her head, sinking my fingers into her soft, unbound hair. God, she feels perfect.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’re worth it. Your safety means as much to me as mine does to you.”

The sunset shifts from the sky to my chest, filling me with streaks of flame. My mouth opens, the words I want to tell her rising fast. I know who you are, Birdie. I’ve spent my life waiting for you. I love you. You belong with me.

Something holds me back. Fear, maybe. Or I’m just a manipulative asshole who wants her to be the one to confess. To abolish the last barrier between us.

I clear my throat. “Care for a swim?”

She laughs and draws back. “I’m not into exhibitionism.”

I smirk. “I can turn off the lights in the jacuzzi.”

“Can you plug their ears, too? Because if you haven’t noticed, I’m loud.” Her head cocks. “So are you, actually.”

I’m suddenly grateful for the deepening shadows and the fact my back is to the lights from the house, because I’m blushing like a virgin boy. She still sees it—or senses it. Her grin is wicked and causes a chain reaction in my body.

“It’s your fault,” I mutter, my hands roaming down her back to her ass. I pull her against me, thrusting lazily into her stomach. “Did you get enough to eat?”

“Mmhm.” Her breath skates over my neck, my ear. “It was nice of your chef to come feed everyone tonight. How do you feel about the new guys Sven hired?”

“They seem competent. You ready to talk about what happened when I showed up today?”

She stiffens slightly. When she tries to draw away, I hold her tighter. “Kieran,” she huffs in annoyance. “I don’t want to talk about my family.”

I already know far more than she thinks—more of what she said that night in the graveyard has come back to me. Almost like my psyche preserved the details knowing I’d want the memories back someday. I remember why she was there in the first place. Her abusive older sister, Olivia.

“How much money have they guilted you into giving them over the years?” I murmur.

She stiffens more, fingers clenching on my back. Finally, she relaxes with a sigh. “A lot.” She shakes her head shortly, frustration and stubborn sadness in each twist of her neck. “I told my mom the house was too big for her. That property taxes would keep going up. She didn’t listen. She asked for help with the down payment. It was stupid of me to say yes. I’m sure Olivia was in her ear, too, angling for a cut like she always does. Who knows if all the money even went to the down payment.”

“It wasn’t stupid, Talia, just human. Your sister is a bitch, by the way. She probably needs therapy.”

She laughs shortly. “That she does.”

I stroke her back. Hold her tighter so she knows how grateful I am for her honesty. “What about your father? Do you talk to him?”

“Not really,” she says mutedly. “He’s actually not a bad person. We’re just very different. When I had some issues as a teen, he got me into therapy, but when I turned eighteen and visitation and child support weren’t mandatory anymore, we drifted apart. He was remarried by then. I usually hear from him around the holidays and my birthday.”

I want to know what issues she had as a teenager but refrain from asking. She’ll tell me eventually, and I’m playing the longest game—the one that lasts a lifetime.

Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I don’t hear from my dad again, though.”

I frown. “Why?”

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