The moon was already sinking toward the horizon by the time Vaughn guided our rowboat toward a small, hidden inlet. My body ached, muscles screaming from the cold and exertion. The sodden dress clung to my skin like a second layer of misery, and my teeth had long since given up chattering, settling instead for a dull, clenched ache in my jaw.
"Almost there," Vaughn murmured, his voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of water against the hull. "There's a dock just around this bend."
I didn't respond. What was there to say? The silence between us had stretched across miles of dark water, broken only by necessary directions and warnings about submerged obstacles. Every stroke of the oars had carried us further from the chaos at the Kane estate, but the distance had done nothing to quiet the storm inside me.
The wooden dock appeared suddenly—weathered planks jutting out from a rocky shoreline, nearly invisible against the darkness until we were almost upon it. Vaughn guided the boat alongside with practiced ease.
"Hold the rope," he instructed, handing me a coarse line as he secured the oars. I wrapped the rope around a nearby cleat, my fingers clumsy with cold.
The dock creaked under our weight as we climbed out. Vaughn reached for my elbow to steady me, but I flinched away, nearly losing my balance in the process.
"Don't." The word came out sharper than I'd intended.
His hand dropped immediately, but I caught the flash of hurt in his eyes before he turned away. "This way."
A narrow path wound up from the dock through a dense grove of pines. I followed, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, ignoring the squelch of water in my ruined heels and the way the wet dress hampered my movements. After what felt like an eternity of climbing, the trees thinned, revealing a small cabin perched on a rocky outcropping.
It was nothing like I'd expected. No rustic getaway or outdoorsman's retreat, but a sleek, modern structure of glass and weathered cedar that blended almost seamlessly into the surrounding landscape. Large windows faced the water, though their interiors were dark.
"Solar panels on the roof," Vaughn explained, noticing my glance at the lack of power lines. "And a backup generator." He approached a keypad beside the front door, his broad shoulders blocking my view as he entered a code. The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open, gesturing for me to enter first.
The interior was pitch black. I hesitated at the threshold, suddenly, irrationally afraid. This man, whom I barely knew despite the intimacies we'd shared, had brought me to an isolated cabin that no one knew about. A man who'd admitted to deceiving me from the start.
As if sensing my thoughts, Vaughn kept his distance. "There's a switch just inside to your right."
I reached out blindly, fingers finding the smooth panel. Light flooded the space, revealing an open-concept main room with minimalist furnishings. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, while the opposite side was almost entirely glass, looking out over the dark water we'd just traversed.
"Bathroom's through there," Vaughn said, pointing to a hallway. "You should get out of those wet clothes. I'll light the fireplace and find you something dry to wear."
I nodded, too exhausted to argue, and made my way toward the bathroom. The room was surprisingly luxurious, with slate floors, a glass-enclosed shower, and a deep soaking tub. I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and froze.
I looked like a drowned ghost—mascara streaked down my cheeks, hair a tangled mess plastered to my skull, lips blue-tinged with cold. Eleanor's blood had washed away in the harbor, but I could still feel its phantom stickiness between my fingers.
A wave of dizziness hit me, and I gripped the edge of the sink, suddenly overwhelmed by everything that had happened. My father alive. Eleanor murdered. Vincent a living ghost. Vaughn's betrayal. The dock collapsing. The struggle in the water.
Had I killed my father? The thought crashed through me with unexpected force. I'd struck him repeatedly with the gun, watched him go limp in the murky water. Was his body floating somewhere in the harbor, or had he somehow survived?
A soft knock at the door startled me from my spiraling thoughts.
"Delilah?" Vaughn's voice was tentative. "I have some clothes for you."
I opened the door just enough to reach through. His hand brushed mine as he passed the bundle, and even that fleeting contact sent an unwelcome current through my skin.
"Thank you," I managed, before quickly shutting the door.
The clothes were simple—a faded Harvard t-shirt, soft flannel pajama pants with a drawstring waist, and thick wool socks. I peeled off my ruined dress and underwear, using a towel to dry my trembling body before pulling on the borrowed clothes. They smelled like him—that subtle blend of sandalwood and something uniquely Vaughn that I'd first noticed in his apartment. The scent hit me like a physical blow, stirring memories I couldn't afford to revisit.
By the time I emerged, Vaughn had changed into dry clothes as well—jeans and a gray henley that clung to his still-damp torso. He knelt before the fireplace, coaxing flames from kindling, his profile sharp against the growing light. He'd toweled his hair, leaving it tousled in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable.
The fire cast dancing shadows across the room, creating an illusion of warmth that didn't reach the cold knot in my chest.
"There's whiskey," he said without looking up. "In the cabinet above the sink. If you want."
I did want. Desperately. Anything to dull the edges of this night. I found the bottle—expensive scotch, half empty—and poured generous amounts into two glasses I found nearby. I carried them to the center of the room, stopping a safe distance from Vaughn.
"Here." I extended one glass toward him.
He rose to his feet with that fluid grace that always seemed at odds with his size. Our fingers didn't touch this time as he took the glass. He tipped it slightly in my direction, a mockery of a toast, before taking a long swallow.
I mirrored him, welcoming the burn as the liquor hit my empty stomach. We stood there, the crackling fire the only sound between us, until I couldn't bear the silence any longer.
"Did you know?" The question had been festering since the dock, demanding release. "About Vincent, about the neural interface. Did you know before tonight?"
Vaughn's jaw tightened. "I suspected something. Not... not that."
"But you knew Richard was alive. You were hunting him."
He didn't deny it. "I found my father's old journals about three years ago. They had references to Richard, to Harbinger Energy, to technologies they were developing together. And there were notes—paranoid ramblings I thought at first—about Richard trying to steal his work."
"So when you approached me at the hotel..."
"I needed someone inside the Kane family." His honesty was brutal. "Someone who might lead me to Richard, or at least help me understand what happened to my father."
"And I was the perfect mark." My laugh was bitter. "The estranged daughter, already at odds with her family. The one with a history of exposing their secrets."
"It wasn't like that." He set his glass down, taking a step toward me. "Not entirely."
I backed away, maintaining the distance between us. "Don't. Just... don't."
"Delilah—"
"What was the plan, Vaughn? Seduce the lonely spinster daughter? Make her fall for you so she'd betray her family?" The words burned coming out, humiliation fueling my anger. "Was fucking me part of the original strategy, or just a bonus?"
His expression hardened. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" I laughed again, the sound verging on hysterical. "You used me to get to my father. You lied about why you came to me, about what you knew. You got me to trust you, to—" I cut myself off, unwilling to articulate what had been growing between us.
"Yes, I approached you with an agenda," he admitted, his voice tightly controlled. "And yes, I withheld information. But I never lied about Ivy framing me. I never lied about needing your help to clear my name."
"Just about everything else."
"Not everything." He moved toward me again, and this time I held my ground. "Not what happened between us."
"Nothing happened between us," I said coldly. "We slept together. Once. It was a mistake."
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Is that what you tell yourself? That it was just sex? That you haven't been thinking about it every day since?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
"You're lying." He was close enough now that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. "You're good at it—probably comes with the crisis management territory—but your body gives you away. The way your pupils dilate when I get close. The pulse at your throat. The way you're looking at my mouth right now."
I jerked my gaze away, hating that he was right. Hating the traitorous response of my body to his proximity.
"It doesn't matter." My voice was steadier than I felt. "Whatever this is—was—it's done. Once we find out if your father is really at Willowbrook, we go our separate ways."
"Is that what you want?"
"What I want," I said, meeting his eyes directly, "is to have never met you."
The blow landed—I saw it in the subtle flinch he couldn't quite hide. But instead of backing away, he moved closer, invading my space with deliberate intent.
"Liar," he said softly.
And then his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was nothing like our first. That had been a slow, tentative exploration that built into a conflagration. This was pure destruction from the start—his teeth catching my lower lip, his hands tangling in my damp hair to hold me in place as his tongue sought entrance. And God help me, I opened for him, my body betraying every resolution my mind had made.
I should have pushed him away. Should have slapped him, screamed at him, made him understand that he couldn't just kiss away his betrayal. Instead, I found myself dropping my whiskey glass, dimly registering the thud as it hit the carpet without breaking, my hands already pulling him closer, nails digging into his shoulders.
He backed me against the wall, the impact forcing a gasp from my lungs that he swallowed with his kiss. His hands were everywhere—sliding under the borrowed t-shirt to find my bare skin, cupping my breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until it hardened painfully.
"I hate you," I whispered against his mouth, even as I arched into his touch.
"I know." He bit my neck, drawing a startled moan from my throat. "Hate me all you want. Just don't lie about this."
This. The inexplicable chemistry that had been there from the first moment in the hotel room. The tension that had built through every interaction, every accidental touch, every shared glance. The hunger that had nothing to do with logic or loyalty or good judgment.
I pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to look at him. His pupils were blown wide, lips already swollen from our kiss. I could end this now. Should end it.
Instead, I reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged upward. "Take this off."
A dangerous smile curved his mouth as he complied, pulling the henley over his head and tossing it aside. I'd seen him shirtless before, in his apartment, but somehow the firelight made the planes and angles of his torso more dramatic, shadows pooling in the hollows of his collarbone, highlighting the definition of his abs. A bruise was forming on his ribs from the fight with my father, the purple-blue stain a stark reminder of everything we'd been through tonight.
I reached out, my fingers tracing the edge of the bruise. He sucked in a breath, not from pain but from the delicate touch. My hand drifted lower, following the line of dark hair that disappeared beneath his jeans.
"This doesn't change anything," I said, needing him to understand. "I still don't trust you."
"I know." His voice was rough with want. "I don't care."
He did care. I could see it in his eyes, in the way he held himself slightly apart despite the obvious need thrumming through him. But I didn't want his feelings right now, didn't want to think about what this meant or what would happen tomorrow. I just wanted to feel something besides fear and betrayal and uncertainty.
I pulled the t-shirt over my head, baring myself to his gaze. The air was cool against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, my nipples tightening in response. Vaughn's eyes darkened further as he took me in, his hands settling on my waist with a possessiveness that should have angered me but instead sent heat pooling low in my belly.
"Christ, Delilah." His voice was reverent as he backed me toward the couch. "You have no idea what you do to me."
But I did know. I could see it in the rigid line of his erection straining against his jeans, feel it in the barely controlled tremor of his hands as they skimmed over my skin. I had power here—the only power I'd felt since discovering my father alive—and I intended to use it.
I pushed him down onto the couch, straddling his lap in one fluid motion. His hands immediately went to my hips, fingers digging into flesh with bruising force as I rolled against him. The friction, even through layers of clothing, was exquisite torture.
"I've thought about this," he confessed, mouth hot against my throat. "Every night since the first time. Fucking dreamed about you."
I didn't want his words. Words were weapons, tools of deception. I silenced him with another kiss, grinding down harder against him, swallowing his groan of pleasure. His hands slid from my waist to cup my ass, guiding my movements against him.
"Pants off," I commanded, lifting myself slightly to give him room. He complied eagerly, unbuttoning his jeans and lifting his hips to shove them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him, savoring his sharp intake of breath, the way his head fell back against the couch in surrender.
"Fuck, Delilah." He thrust into my grip, one hand tangling in my hair to bring my mouth back to his. "Need you. Now."
The raw desperation in his voice ignited something primal in me. I stood just long enough to strip off the pajama pants, then returned to straddle him, positioning him at my entrance. Our eyes locked as I sank down slowly, taking him inch by agonizing inch until he was fully seated within me.
For a moment, neither of us moved, the sensation too intense, too perfect despite everything broken between us. Then I began to ride him, setting a punishing pace that had us both gasping. His hands gripped my hips, helping to lift me before slamming me back down onto him.
"Look at me," he demanded when my eyes started to close in pleasure. "I want to see you when you come."
The command sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I was close already, the adrenaline of the night, the emotional whiplash, the forbidden nature of this encounter all conspiring to push me rapidly toward the edge. His thumb found my clit, circling in time with our thrusts, and I felt myself beginning to fracture.
"That's it," he encouraged, voice strained with his own approaching climax. "Let go for me, Delilah. Just for me."
The orgasm crashed through me with unexpected force, my inner walls clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure radiated outward. I cried out his name, a sound torn from somewhere deep and unguarded. He followed almost immediately, his release triggering aftershocks that prolonged my own pleasure until I collapsed against his chest, both of us breathing hard in the aftermath.
Reality crashed back all too soon. The weight of everything we'd been through—everything still ahead of us—settled back onto my shoulders as our heartbeats slowed. I pulled away, avoiding his eyes as I gathered the discarded t-shirt to cover myself.
"Delilah." His voice was gentle, his hand reaching for mine.
I evaded his touch, wrapping my arms around myself. "Don't make this into something it's not."
"And what is it, exactly?"
"A mistake," I said, the words hollow even to my own ears. "A moment of weakness. Pick your cliché."
He stood, seemingly unbothered by his nudity as he approached me. "Is that really what you think? That this was just—what? Stress relief? Revenge sex?"
"Does it matter what I think?" I stepped back, maintaining distance between us. "You lied to me, Vaughn. You used me. Whatever this is between us, it's built on deception."
"Not everything." He reached for his jeans, pulling them on but leaving them unbuttoned. "Yes, I sought you out because of who you were. Because I thought you might lead me to Richard. But what happened after—in my apartment, tonight—that wasn't part of any plan."
I wanted to believe him. God help me, some part of me already did. But trust, once shattered, couldn't be repaired with pretty words and mind-blowing sex.
"We should get some sleep," I said, changing the subject. "Tomorrow we need to figure out if your father is really at Willowbrook, and what to do about mine if he survived."
Vaughn studied me for a long moment, something like resignation crossing his features. "You can take the bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left. I'll sleep out here."
I nodded, grateful for the reprieve. "Thank you."
"Delilah." He stopped me as I turned to leave. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. Not for finding you, not for what's happened between us. But for not being honest about why I came to you in the first place."
The sincerity in his voice made my chest ache. "I'm going to bed."
I retreated to the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me. The room was spartan but comfortable—a queen-sized bed with navy bedding, a single nightstand, a small dresser. More windows looked out over the water, though these had blinds pulled down for privacy.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, running my fingers through my tangled hair. What the hell was I doing? My father might be dead or alive. My sister was continuing his criminal enterprise. Eleanor's body was probably being discovered right now, if it hadn't been already. And here I was, having angry sex with a man I barely trusted, a man whose father might hold the key to unraveling this entire conspiracy.
The sheets smelled like Vaughn when I slid between them, his scent somehow embedded in the fabric despite the crisp cleanliness that suggested they'd been recently washed. I buried my face in the pillow, inhaling deeply despite myself.
Trust had never come easily to me, not after what happened with my family. I'd built my career on skepticism, on questioning motives and uncovering hidden agendas. Yet somehow, despite everything, a part of me wanted to believe Vaughn. Wanted to trust that what we'd shared—what we were still sharing—was real, whatever its origins might have been.
I closed my eyes, exhaustion finally overtaking the chaotic spin of my thoughts. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new revelations, new dangers. We'd need to contact Maya, have her research Willowbrook Care Center. We'd need to monitor news from the Kane estate, see if my father's body had been found. We'd need to decide who, if anyone, we could trust with what we knew.
But for now, in this moment of fragile peace, sleep claimed me, pulling me under into dreams where neural interfaces created ghosts, where family betrayal cut deeper than any blade, and where Vaughn Blackwood's touch was both salvation and damnation.
The question still haunted me as consciousness faded: which would I choose?