I’m getting dressed again when Delilah slams her way through the house and shuts herself in for the night. The woman does not walk on light feet. Despite my low mood a smile threatens. She moves through a space like a storm, crashing about and leaving a mess in her wake. Always has.

When we were teens, the bold way she occupied the world around her fascinated me. For all appearances, she was a shy girl, not liking the spotlight turned on her. The clothes she chose, the way she wore her hair, all of it was designed to blend into a crowd. Logically, she should have crept through life as well. But no. Some part of her might have wanted to hide, but Delilah’s true nature was to shine bright.

For someone who drew the eye without effort yet secretly hated the attention, I realized even then that she was my true opposite. And that we were both somewhat twisted.

I killed the vital light in her pretty face tonight. Shouted like a tyrant.

“I’m such an asshole.”

North, who had returned with his impeccable timing, raises a brow. “You think? Seriously, Saint, what was that? You practically took her head off.”

Grunting, I settle onto the couch set up in my bedroom’s sitting area. “I don’t know. I’m off lately.” I pinch the tense spot between my brows. “Even before Delilah showed.”

“You need to tell her about the accident.”

Accident. I suppose it was. A sick, oily sensation slides down my throat. I swallow it away. “I will.”

North gives me a long look before tilting his head to the side. A small crack rings out as he works through a neck kink. I’m in a shit mood; he’s tense as fuck.

“What’s with you?”

He stops fidgeting. “Martin is here.”

“What, now?” I ask more out of irritation than anything. Of course he shows at this hour.

“I told him you might not have time for him, but he insisted on waiting.”

“Where’d you leave him?” I ask, not exactly liking the idea of Martin having free rein in my house. I doubt he’d do anything so crass as to snoop. But he’s too observant by far.

“He’s in the den.” Judging by North’s tone, it’s clear he knows exactly why I asked.

The den is fairly cut off from the rest of the house. Which also means if Delilah has an itch to leave her room and visit the kitchen, she won’t encounter us. I’ve never hidden that I’ve searched for Sam. But the topic of Delilah’s sister has a bad effect on all of us. I have no desire to rub salt in tonight’s open wounds.

I find Martin comfortably lounging in my favorite leather chair by the dead fireplace, glass of Pappy Van Winkle in his hand. Martin is a prime example of a life lived hard and fast. Lines already fan out from the corners of his eyes and bracket his thin mouth. His brown eyes are always hard, even when he’s amused.