Page 3 of All The Darkest Truths (Second Sons Duet #2)

VESPER

I've always known that blood washes off easier than guilt. I just never expected to experience it first hand.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A stranger stares back at me. Blonde hair plastered to tear-stained cheeks, mascara running in dark rivulets down my face. My uncle's blood spattered across my dress and exposed skin—a grotesque Jackson Pollock of violence.

I need to be clean. I need his blood off of me.

I reach for a washcloth from the neat stack on the corner of the counter.

“Fuck,” I hiss, turning on the faucet. The water runs hot over my flesh as I hear Talon rummaging through my closet in the other room.

I press the damp cloth to my face, watching as Mario's blood dissolves into the white fabric. Pink water swirls down the drain, carrying away the physical evidence but leaving the stain on my soul intact.

“Is this okay?” he asks, holding out a pair of black leggings and one of Zaire’s stolen t-shirts.

I nod, grateful for Talon's thoughtfulness. My voice feels trapped in my throat, like my vocal cords are coated in the same blood I'm washing away.

“Thanks,” I finally manage.

Talon sets the clothes on the closed toilet lid and hesitates, his usually confident demeanor softened by his current concern for me. The golden boy of the Second Sons looks decidedly tarnished in the harsh bathroom light.

“Do you need help?” he asks gently.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak again. What I need is something no one can give me—absolution.

He backs away slowly. “I'll be right outside if you change your mind.” The door begins to close behind him, but the idea of being alone right now terrifies me.

“Talon?”

His retreat stops instantly as he shifts, the door opening wider until his face appears around the edge.

“Stay,” I request.

I stare at my reflection again, fingers fumbling with the zipper. My hands are shaking too badly to manage even this simple task. The tears start again, hot and relentless.

“Let me,” Talon says, stepping forward. His fingers brush mine aside, carefully working the zipper down my back. He doesn't rush, doesn't make me feel exposed despite the intimacy of the moment. “Arms up," he instructs gently.

I comply, allowing him to peel the ruined fabric from my skin. He turns away, giving me space as I slip out of my dress, left in nothing but my underwear.

“Shower,” he suggests, reaching past me to turn the knobs. Steam begins to fill the bathroom as water cascades down. “It’ll help.”

I nod numbly and step toward the glass enclosure. To my surprise, Talon removes his handgun and cell phone from his belt, setting them carefully on the counter before following me into the shower, still fully dressed in his shirt and pants.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Making sure you don't collapse,” he says simply, closing the door behind us. Water immediately soaks through his clothes, plastering the fine fabric to his muscular frame. His hair darkens under the spray, rivulets running down his face.

“Your suit—” I begin.

“Is just fabric,” he interrupts me. “You’re more important to me than threads and cotton, princess.”

I sway beneath the water, too numb to protest or even properly feel the heat against my skin. The water swirling at my feet turns pink, then red, as Mario's blood washes away. My uncle's blood. The blood I spilled.

“Turn around,” Talon says softly. “Lean your head back.”

I comply without thinking, too empty to resist. His fingers thread through my hair, working methodically from roots to ends. The scent of lavender fills the steam-clouded shower as he massages shampoo into my scalp. His touch is unexpectedly tender, each stroke deliberate and soothing.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, tilting my head further back to keep the suds from running down my face.

I surrender to his care, letting my lids fall shut as his fingertips work small circles against my scalp. The gentle pressure draws a sigh from my lips.

“That's it,” Talon encourages, his thumbs pressing lightly at the base of my skull where tension has knotted my muscles. “Just breathe."

He works the lather through my hair, massaging away the physical remnants of what I've done. If only he could wash away the memories as easily.

“I keep seeing his face. Does it...does it ever get easier?” The question feels like poison on my tongue.

“It shouldn't. The day taking a life becomes easy is the day you've lost something essential. I wish I could tell you it will fade with time, princess, but it won’t. The first life you take will always stick with you.”

“Who was your first?”

“Someone who stole from my father.”

“Did you mean to do it?”

“Yes. Unlike yours, mine wasn't an accident.” His jaw tightens. “My father handed me the gun and told me to prove my loyalty to the family. It was his little test to see if his bastard son was worthy of his last name.”

“Did it hurt you? After?”

“For a long time.” He reaches for the conditioner, squeezing a dollop into his palm before working it through my hair with the same careful attention. “But the difference between you and me, Vesper, is that I knew what I was getting into. This life wasn't forced on me the way it was on you.”

“I’m sorry," I mumble.

“Never apologize for doing what is necessary, Vesper.”

Talon's hands pause in my hair as he notices me trembling beneath his touch. The water has gone lukewarm, but that's not why I'm shaking.

“You're freezing,” he says softly, reaching behind me to turn off the shower. “Let's get you dry.”

He steps out first, grabbing a plush towel from the rack and wrapping it around me before I can even register the cool air hitting my wet skin.

The tenderness in his touch makes my throat tighten.

He grabs another towel for himself, quickly running it over his drenched clothes before draping it around his neck.

“Better?” he asks, his voice low, searching for something in my face.

I manage a small nod, clutching the towel tighter around my body. My teeth have started chattering despite every effort to keep them still. A sharp knock at the bedroom door makes us both turn. Talon’s demeanor shifts instantly—shoulders tightening, his jaw setting with silent resolve.

“Get dressed.” He pauses in the doorway, glancing back. “Will you be alright for a minute?”

“I’ll be fine,” I lie, the words like ash on my tongue.

Talon gives a single nod—hesitant, clearly unconvinced—but says nothing else. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with my reflection once more.

The leggings cling uncomfortably to my damp skin, but Zaire’s T-shirt drapes over me like armor. What used to be playful—wearing his clothes, stealing them for fun—now feels like my only defense. At this rate, his closet might be empty soon.

Through the bathroom door, I catch the low hum of voices—Talon and Oz, speaking in hushed tones.

I press both palms to the cool sink, grounding myself in the steady, solid chill of porcelain.

When I finally step out of the bathroom, Talon stands by the door, his soaked shirt plastered to his chest and arms. The light from the hallway catches the planes of his face as he turns, tension carved into every angle.

“That was Oz. They’re back from the mansion.”

“Did they…” I trail off. I already know. They were cleaning up what I left behind. Getting rid of the body. The truth slams into me all at once, crushing the air from my lungs.

“Vesper.”

Talon crosses the room in three long strides. His touch is gentle.

“Breathe with me.”

He lifts my hand and places it over his chest, letting me feel the strong, steady rhythm beneath my palm. A silent reminder that life keeps going—mine included.

"Feel that? Match it,” he instructs. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Gradually, the vice around my lungs loosens, and the room stops spinning quite so violently. Talon’s heartbeat steadies me, the rhythmic thump-thump like a lifeline I cling to with everything I have.

“That's it,” he encourages. "You're doing great.”

“I don't know how to do this,” I confess. “How to live with what I've done.”

Talon's expression softens, something like understanding flickering across his features. “You survive it one breath at a time, Vesper. That's all any of us can do.”

The door swings open abruptly, and Zaire strides in with a commanding presence. His attention snaps to Talon's hands, still clasping mine, then drops to take in Talon's drenched clothing, water dripping onto the floor.

"Out,” he orders Talon.

Talon doesn't move. “I don't think that's what Vesper needs right now.”

“I wasn't asking,” Zaire's voice cuts like ice through the room. The silver in his stare has turned to steel, with that dark, stormy edge that only surfaces when his control begins to fray.

I step back from Talon's grip, wrapping my arms around myself. “It's okay,” I tell him softly. “I'm okay now.”

The two men face off in silence, tension thick enough to choke on. I expect Talon to push back, but instead, he gives a slight nod before turning to me. “I'll be just down the hall if you need me," he says softly.

As he passes Zaire in the doorway, their shoulders brush—neither man giving ground.

When the door clicks shut behind Talon, Zaire’s sharp edges fracture. In three swift steps, he’s in front of me, hands trembling slightly as they hover just shy of my skin—uncertain if touch will soothe or shatter.

“Vesper,” he breathes.

Before I can respond, his mouth crashes into mine—raw, aching, desperate.

I taste salt, though I can’t tell whose tears they are.

His touch finds my face, cupping it with a gentleness that defies the urgency of his kiss.

This isn’t just a kiss—it’s grounding, claiming, making sure I’m still here. Still his. Still real.

When we finally part, he studies me without speaking, scanning my expression for something only he understands. His thumbs brush over my cheeks, wiping away tears I hadn’t noticed falling.

“Don’t disappear on me. Not again.”

“I’m here,” I promise, though my voice trembles. "I'm not going anywhere.”

Zaire leans in until our foreheads touch, our breaths mixing in the small space between us. “What happened tonight...it should’ve been me pulling the trigger.”

“No,” I pull back slightly. “Don’t say that.”

His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. “It’s my job to protect you, Vesper.” His words come rough and uneven, full of a wounded pride I’ve never heard before. “I’m supposed to be the one who does the ugly things so you don’t have to.”

I can see it now—the pain he carries isn’t just about Mario’s death. It’s about me being the one who pulled the trigger.

“You hate that I killed him,” I say, the realization dawning with sharp clarity. “Not that he’s dead, but that I was the one who took his life.”

Zaire’s silence is confirmation enough. He drops his forehead to mine again, his breath warm against my lips.

“I’m supposed to be your monster.” His grip tightens at my waist. “I can live with taking another life. I can’t live seeing you shatter again. It will kill me this time, moya koroleva.”

His confession hits like a punch to the chest. I press my face against him, leaning into the warmth of his skin, into the steady rhythm of his breathing. My fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m still here,” I whisper, pressing my palm to his cheek. “Nothing has changed.”

But even as the words leave my lips, I know they’re a lie.

The woman who woke up this morning no longer exists. In her place stands someone who understands exactly how much pressure it takes to end a life—who has watched the light vanish from a man’s face.

Zaire studies me in silence, his features drawn tight with grief and knowing. He doesn’t speak, but the small movement of his jaw—a tick, then another—says everything.

He knows I’m lying.

He’s always known.

“What do you need from me right now?” he asks instead.

I exhale slowly, grateful for the reprieve. "Sleep.”

I let him guide me to the bed, my body suddenly heavy with exhaustion.

He pulls back the covers and helps me settle against the pillows.

The tenderness in his movements nearly breaks me again—this dangerous man is treating me like I'm made of glass.

I would expect it from Oz and Talon, but not Zaire.

“Don't leave,” I demand, reaching for his hand. The thought of being alone with my thoughts terrifies me more than anything else.

Zaire's expression softens. Without a word, he kicks off his boots and lowers himself onto the bed beside me.

He doesn't get under the covers, just stretches out on top of them, creating a barrier between me and the world.

His arm drapes protectively over my waist, his body a solid wall of warmth against my back.

“Never,” he vows with a fervor that sears the air, his breath hot and urgent against my neck. “No one will ever tear you away from me, Vesper. Not even the God himself would dare to try.”