Page 50 of Drawn to Death
“Not even a little bit. Maybe an Alfred if you were wearing a tuxedo and pretending to be a butler. But Alfie?” I shake my head, lips twitching. “That’s a golden retriever puppy, not…” I gesture vaguely at him, at the size of his shoulders, the way he just stands there, solid and quietly confident.
He grins, something sharp and teasing in his eyes. “Maybe you’d rather call meDaddyinstead.”
I cough, nearly swallowing my tongue. My face goes up in flames so fast I think I might pass out. “You didnotjust say that.”
He just arches an eyebrow, his mouth twitching with a smirk he’s not even trying to hide. “I’m just saying. One of those fits better.”
My heart thuds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The air in the room feels different now, thick and sparking with something I hadn’t expected. This is new territory, not just the house, not just the uneasy truce, but this banter, this side of Talon, or Alfie, I haven’t seen before. He’s letting himself play.
“I’ll, uh, have to think about it,” I say, aiming for cool, missing by a mile.
His smile softens, but it’s still knowing. “Take your time. We’ve got nothing but time and paint.”
He moves past me, shoulder bumping mine, and I shiver. It’s not the sea breeze, either; it's him. It's how happy he makes me feel. Happy, cared for, and loved.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s air out the master bedroom. The sheets will need replacing.”
I follow, still burning, still reeling from the way he just casually dropped that line. The hallway light catches his face, making him look younger, or maybe just less guarded. Here in this house,with the ocean outside and the past pressed into the walls, he’s changing. Or maybe just coming back to himself after years of being someone else.
Either way, I want to know all of it. Every name, every version, every story.
And as we continue from room to room, opening windows and letting in sunlight and salt air and the endless hush of the waves, I realize there’s time. For all of it.
Chapter twenty-five
Talon
Night falls differently by the ocean. I’ve forgotten that. The darkness doesn’t just descend; it rises, slow and heavy, from the water itself, swallowing the horizon before it creeps up to claim the sky. I stir the pasta sauce, watching steam curl, keeping half an eye on Quell. He leans against the porch railing, silhouette cut sharp against the last purple light, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks. My grandmother’s old wooden table creaks when I shift my weight, the sound so familiar it almost hurts. Her rules still echo in my head: no one eats unless they help.
The pasta water bubbles, nearly ready, and the tomato sauce fills the salt air with basil and garlic. Simple food. Real food. Not takeout eaten in safe houses with the blinds drawn tight.
“You could come help, you know.” I tap the wooden spoon against the pot. “House rules.”
Quell turns. The ocean wind messes up his hair. His glasses catch the light from the kitchen, hiding his eyes for a second. He’s been quiet since we aired out the house, moving throughthe rooms like he’s scared to disturb the dust. But now, there’s something different in the way he stands. Looser. Almost playful.
“So, Daddy, you're making me help you with feeding your boy?”
The words just hang there. I freeze, spoon suspended above the sauce. Quell’s face flushes, obvious even in the dim light.
“I was joking,” he blurts out, his voice tight. “That was stupid. I didn’t mean…”
I set the spoon down and turn the burner to low. Two steps and I’m right in front of him. Close enough to smell the salt on his skin, see the pulse jump in his throat.
“You want to call me that, don’t you?” My voice goes lower than I mean. Rough around the edges.
Quell swallows, eyes darting away. He shrugs. Too casual. Too forced.
“I just thought…” He pushes his glasses up, a nervous habit, one I notice the first day. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”
“Quell.” I don’t touch him, but my voice makes him look at me. “You’re not scared of me anymore.”
Not a question. I’ve seen the change. The way he moves around me now, no more flinching. The way he reaches for me with without hesitation. The way he sleeps beside me, not curled up on the edge but sprawled out, trusting.
He breathes out slowly, almost lost in the rush of waves below the porch. “No,” he says finally. “I’m not scared of you.” His eyes lock on mine. Honest. Dark. It almost hurts to look back. “But I’m still terrified of what you make me feel.”
Something shifts in my chest, a loosening I can’t name. I lean back just a bit, enough to give him space. Behind us, the pasta water boils over, spitting and hissing where it hits the flame. I don’t move to fix it. I don’t want to break the moment. I don’t want to move at all.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
