Brent nodded. “Lay it on me.”
“You still talking to Miranda?”
“No…I mean, not really.” Brent scuffled his feet on the ground. “Guess I can’t really look her in the eyes after everything that went down.” He looked up and squinted. “Why d’you ask?”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
“I rarely do, with you.”
Chapter 60
The doorbell was too small under Brent’s large hands and he had to jam his finger against it a couple times before it made any sound. He could hear the melodic ring echo throughout the caverns of the white old-world mansion on Stoneridge Cliffs.
Damn, he thought, more puzzled than impressed by the architectural snobbery of the place. Who needed a house that big? Ever? Could fit a family of twenty, easily. He preferred doors without doorbells. Small, cozy doors with well-worn hinges that were left unlocked night and day, open, inviting.
When Miranda finally opened the door, she did so with a frown, like he was interrupting something important. She was dressed all in white (girl must hate Labor Day, Brent thought), with a soft camisole draped over her and a low-cut top.
“What do you want?” she said curtly. She pulled her camisole a little tighter over her shoulders (as though he hadn’t already seen everything underneath).
Brent drew a small, idiot grin. “Y’look nice,” he said.
Miranda’s perfectly groomed eyebrows lifted. “And you look like warmed-over shit. What happened to you?”
“Ah, this just…y’know…” He fumbled for words and took his hat off his head, revealing the black-and-blue bruise over his eye. “Got in a fight. Jacob.”
Miranda let out a breath—a bored half-sigh—but Brent caught the unmistakable flicker in her eye. The huntress smelled blood and it excited her. If the two brothers were fighting, vying for the title of Alpha, that was good news for her. Got her closer to whatever castle in the sand her power-hungry brain had conjured up.
She stepped back just enough to let him through the door. “Come in.”
Brent took a step inside. The foyer gave the impression it was swallowing its guests whole with tall ceilings, a yawning double winder staircase, and framed landscapes that focused on small, faraway objects in the distance. The place smelled mainly of cleaning products, disinfectant, and Miranda’s Dark Sin perfume, but under all the layers Brent’s acute senses could still taste the other animal that lived here—Cayden.
“I ain’t interrupting anything, am I?” he asked.
“Cayden is out,” she said with a vague flick of her wrist before she started down the hall, bare feet soundless on the tile. “I was just about to take a shower.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” he said as he started after her.
“Take off your shoes,” Miranda said sharply. Brent glanced down—his muddied boots had already made a mess of her entranceway. Pale grey floor tiles, now that was just asking for trouble, in his opinion.
As he kicked off his shoes, she tossed over her shoulder, casually, “You can take off your pants, too, if you plan on staying.”
Miranda’s camisole dropped from her shoulders and puddled in the hallway. Her skirt went next, then her shirt, making a trail into the bathroom.
Mother of God…
Brent felt an all-too-familiar swell against the seam of his jeans.
No. Down boy. This is how we got in this big ol’ mess in the first place.
He heard the hiss of running water as her shower flickered on. Brent lingered outside the bathroom door and called in, “Y’want some wine?”
“Yeah. Please.” Her voice, though muffled by the water, still rang out clear and sharp. “There’s a bottle of Elkborne in the fridge.”
Brent tore himself away and moved down the hall. He was on a mission, after all. Miranda’s bedroom stood open between the bathroom and the kitchen and he chanced a glance down the hall—all clear—before taking the opportunity to steal away into her bedroom. Mostly gunmetal grey in here, with accents of deep crimson red. He didn’t have time to waste—five minutes, maybe, before she got suspicious—and he immediately dove at her cabinets. He opened up the drawers and started sifting through her jewelry. She kept it in basketfuls, which didn’t make this any easier. Like searching for a needle in a haystack. Or, in his case, searching for a very specific talisman, a necklace with a six-pointed star and a gem of some sort stuck in the middle.
Brent rummaged through drawers and baskets. One minute went by. Two. The shower was still running, steadily, uninterrupted. He examined handfuls of necklaces, searching—