Page 17 of Twisted Truths (The Sunburnt Hearts #4)

Chapter Twelve

NASH

I think I’ve completely taken leave of my senses. One minute I’m arguing with Hadley, and the next I’m kissing her. I can’t deny the attraction I feel towards her, but my brain is screaming this is wrong while my body is leaning into hers, betraying every logical fibre of my being.

Her lips are soft and pliant against mine, answering my kisses with the same urgency I’m trying—and failing—to hold back. I grip her waist tighter, pulling her closer, and her heart pounds against her chest in the same frantic rhythm as my own.

She’s Sunfire Circle. She should be my enemy.

What the hell am I doing?

I break the kiss for a beat, but my hands don’t move. They can’t. Her soft scent of lavender and mint is messing with my head. “This is a mistake,” I whisper against her mouth.

Hadley looks up at me, her cheeks flushed and pupils blown wide, like she feels it as much as I do. Yet she doesn’t say anything to stop me when I kiss her again.

My body is an idiot. She fits against me like she belongs here, like she was made to. Because something about her—something deeper than the layers of cult rhetoric or secrets—calls to something buried deep within me.

Still, the voices in my head won’t shut up.

She’s dangerous.

She’ll ruin you.

Pushing those voices aside, I kiss her harder. Angrier. Like I blame her for this chaos inside me when I know damn well it’s mine.

Her hands move over my chest, and snake around my neck. She tangles her fingers in my hair, tugging gently, and I lose whatever grip I had on my sanity. My heart and my head are at war, and my body?

My body has surrendered.

“Wait,” Hadley murmurs between kisses. “Wait.”

I force myself to pull my lips away, breathing hard, but I don’t give her an inch of space. Bringing my hand up to cup her cheek, I swipe my thumb along her kiss-swollen bottom lip. “What is it about you, little possum? Why am I so drawn to you?”

She closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. When they open, I’m struck by the vulnerability in her gaze. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”

I shut her up by pressing my lips to hers in a soft, closed-mouth kiss.

“ We shouldn’t have,” I agree, resting my forehead against hers. “But I don’t regret it.”

My words shock the both of us.

Her lips part as her hands drop back to my chest, and my heart races under her touch.

“I don’t regret it either,” she whispers on a shaky exhale. “But this isn’t safe. If they find out…”

Anger tinged with an irrational fear for her surges through me. “Who? Gabriel?”

Hadley shakes her head, slowly pushing away from me. “There are rules. If they find out I … That we…”

I reach for her hand, but she evades me and backs up towards the compound. “Hadley?—”

“This is too dangerous. I can’t. I’m sorry.” She turns and flees into the trees before I can stop her.

Running a frustrated hand through my hair, I let her go, leaving me with more questions than I had before I spoke to her.

Fuck.

George Watson sits on the other side of a rich mahogany desk, a couple of brochures spread out between us as he goes through information about caskets and coffins, flower arrangements, service details, transportation, burials, gravestones.

It’s overwhelming, but to say I’m distracted is an understatement.

I absentmindedly rub my thumb over my tingling bottom lip as he talks, recalling the delicate press of Hadley’s lips to mine. The way her tongue stroked against mine, slow and unsure at first, then building with confidence.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her—not now—but that kiss was …

“Nash?”

It takes me a second to realise the old man has asked me a question. I clear my throat and straighten, shifting uncomfortably in my seat .

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” Heat rises to the back of my neck as he casts me a sympathetic look over the top of his glasses.

“I know this can’t be easy for you, son.” Steepling his hands beneath his chin, he says, “I asked what kind of service you’d like to have. We could hold it here or?—”

“The church,” I interrupt. “It’s what Mum and Paul would have wanted.”

I’ve got to give it to George for keeping his face passive. “Are you sure that’s a good idea with everything?—”

“The church,” I repeat firmly. “With a cremation afterwards.”

There’s no way I’m coming back here after I leave, and I’m not leaving my family behind. Paul included. He was more of a father to me than Dalton ever was.

Paul’s estranged brother lives over in England, along with both his elderly parents who are too sick to travel. George assures me we can stream it for them.

Mum’s parents died when I was in high school. Nan first, followed a week later by Pop. Mum always said he died of a broken heart. Poetic, really.

George makes a note. “I’ll schedule a meeting with Father Malachi to organise the order of ceremonies.”

I offer him a brief nod, and he shuffles through the paperwork. “Have you given any thought to the floral arrangements?”

The look on my face is obviously telling because he adds, “Daniela’s orchids were always the talk of the town. My Janice was always chuffed when she’d pick some up at the market.”

“Yep, fine. Whatever. Do you have someone who can organise that? I don’t mind what you go with.”

He nods, making more notes before he leans back in his chair and removes his glasses. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he exhales a deep breath. “This next part is going to be the hardest, Nash. There’s no easy way, I’m afraid.”

My chest tightens and I brace myself for what’s coming. The pressure behind my eyes builds, and I clench my jaw to keep it from showing on my face.

Turning to the bookshelf behind him, George pulls out a folder bound in soft green leather and gently slides it towards me. Children’s Caskets. The words are written in elegant silver script across the front. It feels like they’re screaming at me.

“I thought it best we start with Rylan,” he says softly. “Sometimes making the hardest decision first helps ease into the rest.”

I can’t even open the damn thing. My hand hovers over it, fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do. Because they don’t. How the hell am I supposed to pick out a casket to bury my twelve-year-old brother in?

As I stare at the cover, my eyes blur. I blink hard, blink again, and then finally shove the book away from me.

“I can’t,” I choke out, my voice cracking.

“He was only a kid. Christ, he still slept with that ratty old glow-in-the-dark dinosaur I gave him for his fifth birthday when he was afraid of the boogie monster under his bed. I told him…” I draw in a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears. “I told him it would keep him safe.”

A sob rips from my chest.

“He … he wasn’t supposed to—” My voice breaks completely this time, and I slam my fist down on the edge of the desk, startling both of us. “He was only fucking twelve!”

George gives me a moment, his own eyes shining a little now. He doesn’t say anything, simply folding his hands in his lap and letting me breathe through the pain.

The room spins. I drop my head into my hands, my chest rising and falling like I’ve just run a marathon.

This isn’t happening. I’m not sitting in this room organising a funeral for my mum.

My sister. My little brother. Paul. He was the best stepdad a kid could ask for.

Fuck. Maybe if I pinch myself, I’ll wake up from this fucking nightmare.

I grip the skin on the back of my arm between my thumb and pointer, but it doesn’t work. If anything, it does the opposite. The sharp sting reminds me of where I am and the difficult decisions I have to make. I have no choice. No one else will make them for me.

Paige offered to come, but I told her not to. I made her promise not to tell Levi because he had a game. His team need him.

I need him.

We may not have been close when we were in high school because I was a punk kid with a chip on my shoulder, but he was there for me when I needed his help to get Ziggy out of the cult, and he’s supported me through my loss.

Right now, though, he’s pacing the sidelines of the court, shouting plays, calling subs, completely unaware I’m sitting in the funeral home, trying to figure out how to bury four people.

This isn’t real. It can’t be.

Any second now, someone’s going to call and say, “Sorry, there’s been a mistake.”

I haven’t even seen their bodies. Maybe it’s not them.

George asked me if I wanted a viewing, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t see them like that. I didn’t want my final memories to be twisted and warped.

But I have to face reality. Even without seeing them, I know they’re gone. I feel it deep within my soul.

There’s been no mistake.

There’s just this room, George Watson sitting across from me, and too many goddamn caskets.

“Do you have something … simple?” I whisper eventually. My voice is barely audible. “Rylan wasn’t fancy. He’d want something normal. Not too … not too small, either. He was getting tall.”

George nods slowly and flips open the folder for me, careful not to slide it into my view too fast, as if he’s afraid to spook me again. “There’s a maple one,” he says. “Soft interior. Sturdy.”

My throat closes over again, but I manage a small nod.

We don’t speak much after that, with George simply pointing and me nodding. We select Ziggy’s, then Mum’s, then Paul’s.

Each choice feels like a wound I can’t see, bleeding out somewhere deep inside.

By the time I step outside, the sun is sinking behind the horizon, and I feel hollow. I don’t even remember saying goodbye to George. I simply walked out.

The first thing I do is pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over Levi’s contact, but I can’t bring myself to call him yet.

Instead, I send Paige a single text.

Nash: Done. I need you.

Then I take a seat on the wooden bench outside the funeral home to wait for her. With my shoulders hunched and head bowed, the weight of too much death presses heavy on my back.