Page 34 of Taken Away

And then, as his mouth pressed harder, a jolt went straight down his spine.

It wasn’t Vanessa he felt.

Jesus.

Behind his closed eyes, rain lashed a dark wood patio. A stubborn chin tipped up in defiance. The taste of blackberries and salt. The exact second Aubrey Langford had gone soft in his arms, fingers fisted in his flannel to stay upright.

Bennett’s breath caught, a rough, unsteady sound against Vanessa’s mouth.

He forced himself to keep going, hands sliding up her back like pressure alone could shove the memory down. He tugged her sweater over her head, movements quick and almost sharp. He needed to smother the thought of Aubrey before it rooted any deeper, before it breached his carefully built perimeter.

When they moved to the bedroom, the sex was hard and wordless. Vanessa met his urgency with her own quiet heat, nails skimming his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips with practiced ease. He gave himself over to motion and muscle and the wet drag of skin on skin, using her body as a shield against the grief, against the valley, against the weight of tomorrow.

He drove into sensation until thinking blurred, until all that existed was breath and heat and the thud of his heart. For a few blessed seconds there was no casket, no will, no green Victorian on the hill.

But when he buried his face in the hollow of Vanessa’s neck, jasmine and expensive shampoo couldn’t quite drown out the ghost of blackberries and rain.

Aubrey bled through in one sharp, unwelcome flash—and then he shoved the memory down hard enough to make his teeth clench.

The moment it was over, while Vanessa’s breathing was still slowing beside him in the dark, Bennett slid out from under the sheets.

“Ben?” she murmured sleepily, reaching toward the empty space.

“Bathroom,” he said, his voice scraped down to gravel.

He walked into the stone-tiled bathroom and shut the door. He didn’t turn on the light. He planted both hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging between his shoulders, chest heaving like he’d climbed the ridge.

He twisted the tap and splashed freezing mountain water over his face again and again, chasing numbness.

In the dim reflection, the thin spill of light from the bedroom cut across the hard lines of his face.

Get a grip, he snarled inwardly. She’s a headache from Philadelphia. She’s Mabel’s niece. A year from now he’d buy her out and forget she was ever here.

The lie tasted like iron on his tongue.

His fingers still trembled against the cold porcelain.

Even this—this one safe, compartmentalized thing with Vanessa—was already being poisoned by a memory he hadn’t asked for and couldn’t control.

He shook his face dry, shoved a hand through his hair, and stood there in the dark for a long time listening to the rain against the small window.

When he finally walked back into the bedroom, he slid in behind Vanessa. She shifted automatically, curling her back against his chest, her breathing deep and even.

He slung an arm over her waist and closed his eyes, forcing his mind to go blank, trying to outrun the dawn.

But somewhere down in the valley, the lights of the green Victorian were still burning through the mist.

And Bennett knew he wasn’t going to get a single minute of sleep before he had to face her.

EIGHT

Blackwood Estate

Mabel’s House

The morning sun broke over the Blue Ridge Mountains in a heavy, blinding glare, instantly baking the humidity into the valley.

Inside the guest room, Aubrey woke up all at once, her heart hammering against her ribs. She sat up, running on three hours of fractured sleep.