He blinked up at me. God, he looked exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, too.
He didn’t reach for a shirt. Didn’t seem to care that he was half-naked.
He set the book aside, leaned back in the chair, and looked me over. Slowly.
His gaze dragged down my body, up again, lingering on my face. Then it dropped to my arms, where Preston’s fingerprints were probably turning purple beneath my skin.
Graham’s expression changed. There was heat in the intense way he stared at me, but there was something else too. Devastation. Maybe some anger.
“Come here,” he said quietly.
My breath hitched. “Graham—”
“Please.”
It wasn’t the word that disarmed me, but the way in which he said it. Half command, half raw plea.
I stepped toward him, his eyes tracking everything. When I came close, he stood to meet me, his movement slow and languid. His hair was mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it. The curled, dark strands fell over his forehead.
He reached for me, his fingers curling into the cotton zip-up I’d worn to the bonfire. The bonfire. That seemed like so long ago, instead of mere hours. It felt like everything had changed. Again.
There was a question in his eyes as he dragged his fingertips to the zipper. I didn’t stop him; I didn’t protest as he eased it all the way open. I wore a black tank top underneath.
Graham’s hands skimmed over my collarbones, under the fabric of my hoodie, and he pushed it gently off my shoulders. It fell into a heap on the floor.
I hadn’t checked the marks Preston’s hands had left. I hadn’t seen the bruises that were surely blooming.
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Quinn…”
I tried to pull back. “It’s fine—”
“No.” His grip was gentle, but immovable. “It’s not fine.”
His thumb brushed the edge of a bruise. I flinched.
His whole face twisted as though I’d stabbed him.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry this happened to you.”
I swallowed down the burn in my throat. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I should’ve been outside sooner.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.” His voice cracked, and something in me cracked with it. “We couldn’t tell how close he was to you because of the angle of the camera. Not until—not until he was shaking you like that.”
He sounded gutted, and I wasn’t sure how to react. “It’s not your fault.”
Graham hung his head, casting his face in shadow. His hand brushed down my arm until his fingers wrapped around my wrist, like he was grounding himself. “I’ve been thinking…I know Preston lives in Cincinnati, but—I’m not sure that Ember Hollow is any safer.”
He trailed off. I stepped closer. “What are you trying to say?”
He still didn’t look at me. “I think it might be best if you went home, Quinn. I can’t guarantee that you’re safe and I—I’m sick and tired of seeing you get hurt.”
His grip tightened on my wrist when I tried to pull away. “You think I should leave? Now?” I wasn’t sure why the thought surprised me. “I have no reason to go home anymore.”
I sounded more sad than I was. I still felt loss. But the sting and horror of losing my job was slowly ebbing, being shrouded by the immediate gravity of Anderson’s escape. I’d been working there for so long it had become my identity, but perhaps that had been what was killing me. So slowly I hadn’t even noticed.
