For the first time, I smile. "It is now."
We stand there, silent, as the sun settles behind the ridge and the shadows cover the yard. I shiver, but refuse to be the first to retreat. I see him look at my bare legs, then away, then back. It’s enough. I pivot on my heel and stalk inside, leaving the door open behind me.
Three days into the new standoff, there’s a pop thunderstorm—one that shatters the sky, then moves on in a flash. A branch drops near the fence, triggers the alarm, and sends him out into the mud to investigate. He comes back through the garage, soaked, hair plastered to his forehead. I watch from the hall as he stands by the mudroom sink, wrings out his shirt, and grabs a spare tee from the laundry shelf. He doesn’t yell or slam any doors—just stands with jaw locked, shoulders bunched, water dripping onto the tile.
I wait for him to change. I want to see if he’ll do it, knowing I’m watching. He does—methodical, blank-faced, like I’m not present. That ghost thing again. Still, I see the faint pink banding his throat and the way his arms flex when he yanks off the wet shirt. The body can only erase and rewind so much. The rest vibrates in the air between us.
I wander down the hall and hover in the doorframe, arms folded. “Security crisis averted?” I throw out, sarcasm sharpened to knife edges. But I want—god, I don’t even know what I want. Some acknowledgement, I’m not alone under this roof of static.
He doesn’t look up. “False alarm. Branch. Nothing you need to worry about.”
There’s a smear of dirt on his wrist, a bit of leaf stuck to his jeans. I want to touch it off. Instead, I point at it. “You’re getting sloppy. If my dad saw you like this, he’d think you need retraining.”
He wipes the debris, then shuts the laundry sink cabinet behind him. “Your father doesn’t need to see me. That’s the point.” His voice is so flat, so clipped, it could cut glass.
“Do you ever get tired of being the wall?” I ask, leaning in. “Doesn’t your face hurt from never moving your lips?”
“I don’t have a choice. That’s the job.”
I want to needle him, see if he’ll give me a reason to hate him for real. “So your real personality gets turned off at the door? Must be exhausting.” Then, before he can walk away: “Or maybe you like it. Maybe you like being the one thing nobody can ever move.”
He raises his brow, just a hair, and wipes his hand on a towel before tossing it in the washer. “We do what’s necessary.”
It’s so canned it’s almost poetry. “Who’s we? My father’s people, or just you in particular?”
He straightens, and I can see that he’s way too close to the edge—or maybe I am. “Delilah.” There’s a warning in it. I ignore that, too.
“I’m not in danger right now. The gates are locked, and the cameras work. You could take a day off, and no one would know. Why don’t you?”
His jaw ticks again. “Because it wouldn’t matter if anyone knew. I would.”
I don’t get it, and I hate that I don’t. “Are you afraid you’ll become a real person if you take five minutes to yourself?”
He almost says something. His lips part, then flatten again. “If you have a complaint, take it up with your father.”
“Fuck you!” I spit. “I’m not talking to my father.”
That gets him. He goes still, then he turns and finally, finally looks at me. Not through me. At me. Full-on, hurricane eye contact, and it lands so hard I have to pretend I’m not staggering. “You think this is a game?” he asks, voice so soft it’s almost strangled. “You think you’re the first person to try and break me?”
I grin at him. “You saying I’m not special?”
He presses two fingers to his temple, like he’s holding in a migraine or a bullet. “You’re different,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter. The rules don’t change. Not even for you.”
Good. Then I’ll just have to set fire to your precious rulebook.
CHAPTER TEN
DELILAH
Isleep like shit. Dreamless, brittle. I wake to thunder, not sunlight—the kind that vibrates your bones. The house is dark—no green stove digits, no hiss. Power’s out. I check my phone: 5:13 a.m. No bars. I stumble into the hallway, blinking. Narrow windows glow with pre-dawn blue. In the wet hush, wood pops and splinters. A tree is down, maybe the fence is giving way.
Cade’s awake—maybe he never slept. He stands on the island, head bowed, still. Only a jittery lantern lights him, his shadow huge on the wall. He senses me instantly. “Stay put,” he growls. “Something tripped the motion sensors on the west line.”
I ignore him and go stand beside him. “It’s probably a deer. Or a branch.”
He’s wearing a rain jacket, yesterday’s jeans, and laced boots. There’s a printout on the table, a memo with the letterhead ripped off. I try to read it upside down, but he covers it.
“Don’t,” he warns. He means more than just the paper—he means don’t ask questions. But now I want to know everything. There’s a new tension in him, a tight control.