Page 14 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

VESPER

“What the actual hell?” I gasp, covering my nose with my sleeve as Z slams the apartment door behind us. “I thought you said they had to hide in a dumpster, Talon. It reeks like they dragged it home with them.”

The apartment smells like something crawled into a dumpster, died, fermented for a week in the summer heat, and then was placed in the hallway.

Talon's reaction is immediate and theatrical—he darts to the kitchen, grabs the tropical breeze air freshener from under the sink, and begins prancing around the living room, spraying in wide, graceful arcs.

“This isn't helping!” I choke out.

“I think I can taste it,” Z chokes out next to me. “What the fuck kind of dumpster was it? Hazardous waste? Dead bodies?”

“All of the fucking above,” Alex’s voice carries as he emerges from the hallway.

My brain short-circuits momentarily when he comes into view.

He's wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, his lean, muscular body on full display.

Water rivulets drip from his still wet hair down his stomach, accentuating his defined abs.

A tribal tattoo I've never noticed before snakes around his left bicep, disappearing over his shoulder.

If it weren’t for the stench and the tied-up trash bag that he’s keeping at arm's length, I’d happily keep staring.

“Don't just stand there,” he grunts at us. “There's another bag outside Oz's room that needs to go down to the incinerator in the basement. Now.”

“I am not touching that,” Z protests.

“Don’t look at me,” I chime in.

Talon ceases his air freshener ballet, snatches the bag from Alex, and moves to collect the bag outside of Oz’s door, gagging as he heads towards the basement door.

Alex gives us a withering look before stalking back towards his room. His door slams as he retreats back inside. I wander over to open a window, desperate for fresh air, when Talon emerges from the basement. His face is a horrible shade of green.

“I…am going to vomit, shower, and maybe do it all again,” he declares before disappearing into his own room.

I shake my head as Z and I move toward the rest of the windows, throwing them all open despite the chill in the air.

Fresh oxygen becomes more important than warmth when biological warfare has been declared in your living space.

Minutes pass by, and the apartment still reeks even with the window open.

The sound of another door opening draws my attention. Oscar emerges from his room wearing clean clothes—dark jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that clings to his body.

"Four showers. Four, and I can still smell it."

“We all can,” Z groans.

A gust of wind finally sweeps through the apartment, carrying away some of the noxious fumes. I take my first full breath since walking in, mentally thanking whatever weather god decided to show us mercy.

“So,” I venture, settling onto the arm of the sofa, “are we going to talk about what happened with Ricky?”

“There’s really not much to say. He’s dead, and all we have is his burner phone as long as it survived the dumpster.

” At the mention of the dumpster, Oz gags a little.

“There wasn’t any time to search the apartment, but I highly doubt we’d have found anything.

The place was ransacked. If there was anything to be found, it’s gone, and going back there isn’t an option. ”

“So, were back to square one again and no closer to finding my brother or The Collector?”

“Not entirely square one,” Oscar says, his voice dropping to that calculated tone he uses when formulating a plan. “We know more than we did yesterday.”

Z crosses to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. “Like what? That Ricky was a dead end who is now just...dead?” He pulls out a beer and pops the cap against the counter edge.

“We know someone wanted him silenced,” Oscar continues, moving to sit on the couch near me. “That means he knew something important.”

I pull my knees to my chest, trying to process everything. “But we don't know what that something was. It could have been anything.”

“We just have to keep digging. The burner phone might give us something," Oscar says, leaning forward. “If it doesn’t, we figure out our next steps. We’re going to find Luca, Vesper.”

“We better," I mutter. "I can't keep living like this, wondering if he's safe, if he's even still alive.”

Oscar's hand finds my knee, his touch gentle but firm. “We will, solnishko. I promise you that.”

The endearment makes something flutter in my chest despite the circumstances.

“We should rest. None of us has slept much the last few days.” Oscar continues, his thumb making small circles on my knee. “We might see something we’re missing with fresh eyes.”

I want to argue, to insist we keep working, but exhaustion is seeping into my bones. The emotional rollercoaster I’ve been on has left me drained. “Maybe you're right,” I concede.

“A few hours of sleep wouldn't hurt,” Z says, setting his beer down on the coffee table. He stretches his arms above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of tattooed skin. “I'm going to see if Alex has made any progress with that phone before anything else.”

He walks over to where I'm perched on the arm of the sofa and leans down. His lips brush against mine in a soft, almost hesitant kiss. The gesture catches me off guard, but I don't pull away. His mouth lingers for just a moment, warm and surprisingly gentle, before he straightens up.

“Get some rest.” Z watches me before he turns and heads down the hallway toward Alex's room.

The apartment falls quiet except for the distant sound of traffic filtering through the open windows. Oscar's hand is still on my knee, his touch burning through the fabric of my jeans. “Is everything okay between you and my brother?” he finally asks, his voice carefully neutral.

I blink, caught off guard by the directness of the question. We hadn’t really gotten around to talking about the mechanics of how things would work. The three of us kind of just happened.

Oscar's thumb continues its slow circles on my knee. “You don’t have to tell me details. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I am,” I insist. “Z and I have some things to work through.”

Oz nods, accepting my vague answer without pushing for more.

“Do you want to stay with me tonight?” I ask. “Considering your room might be classified as a toxic waste dump.”

“Not funny.”

“But also not wrong,” I fire back.

A hint of a smile touches his lips as he stands, offering me his hand. “Fair point.”

His palm is warm against mine as he pulls me to my feet. The simple contact sends a current through my tired body, a reminder that even with everything falling apart around us, our connection remain solid. We move down the hallway in comfortable silence, his presence steady behind me.

My bedroom is the furthest from the epicenter of the dumpster disaster, and I breathe a sigh of relief when we step inside the relatively clean space. I close the door behind us, shutting out the lingering stench.

“I should probably shower,” I mutter, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look.

Oscar nods, already moving to sit on the edge of my bed. “Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.”

The bathroom offers a momentary sanctuary. Hot water cascades over my body, and I close my eyes, letting the steam loosen the knots in my shoulders. It’s a brief reprieve. I scrub hard, trying to wash away the grime of the day.

When I emerge, wrapped in a towel, Oscar is still sitting on the edge of my bed, scrolling through his phone. He looks up, his gaze flicking briefly down my body before returning—respectfully—to my face.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Marginally,” I admit, grabbing a pair of sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt from my drawer.

I don’t bother retreating to the bathroom to change. There’s no point in faking modesty—not when Oscar has already explored every inch of me. I let the towel fall, cool air raising goosebumps across my damp skin.

Oscar goes still, his phone slipping from his hand onto the mattress. His attention sharpens. I take my time, stepping into the shorts slowly before sliding them up my legs.

“You're fucking beautiful, Vesper,” he says, voice pitched low, rough at the edges. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

I grab the oversized t-shirt and pull it over my head, allowing myself a small smile when I catch his disappointed expression as the fabric falls to cover my bare torso.

“I might have some idea,” I reply, gathering my wet hair to one side, wringing out excess moisture. “Though, I could say the same about you.”

He extends a hand toward me, and I cross the small space to stand between his knees. His fingers find my hips, thumbs brushing exposed skin.

“We should sleep,” he suggests, though his touch says otherwise. “Tomorrow's going to be another long day.”

“Sleep,” I agree, even as I lean down to brush my lips against his. “Just sleep.”

Oscar pulls me closer, deepening the kiss as his touch glides up my back. The exhaustion that clung to me moments ago evaporates, replaced by a rising tension that spreads through me like a lit fuse—slow, consuming, impossible to ignore.

I push him back onto the bed, climbing over him until I’m straddling his hips. His grip tightens on my thighs, grounding me firmly over the growing hardness pressing between us.

“I thought you said we needed rest,” I tease, leaning down to nip at his lower lip.

“I’ve changed my mind.” His touch slips beneath my oversized shirt, tracing lazy patterns over bare skin. “This seems like a much better way to relieve stress.”

“Sleep is overrated.”

His fingers trail along my sides, drawing shivers that dance over my skin despite the warmth building between us. I grind against him, slow and deliberate, and he answers with a low groan that rumbles in his chest, the sound as dark and hungry as the way he’s looking at me.

“Stress relief, huh?” I murmur, lips hovering just above his. “And here I thought you just couldn’t resist me.”