“Alright.” I concede because what choice do I have? He’s only given me the illusion of a choice anyway. I sit back down on the couch, forgetting about my back. I suck in air between my teeth and tense up.
He takes a step toward me but stops himself, shoving his hands into his pockets “You need your bandages changed.”
I squint at him. He’s like some kind of alien from a foreign planet. And I can’t decide if I want to jump in his spaceship and fly off with him or run away screaming. No matter how hard I try, I can’t figure out what his motivation is. No one is this self-sacrificing. I fight the nagging feeling that I’m missing something important.
“Get up. Couch is too hard. Gotta be uncomfortable as hell.” He heads down the hallway without waiting for me, calling over his shoulder. “Go lay down, I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
Sighing, I get up and follow him. I head into the room with an open door. There’s a king-sized bed against the far wall, with simple blankets, a small nightstand, and a dresser. Two doors line the far wall. One leads to a walk-in closet. The other opens into an ensuite bathroom with an oversized bathtub, separate shower, and double sinks. I take my cardigan off and crawl onto the bed, lying down on my stomach.
He appears with a large first-aid kit in hand and a bottle of water. He sucks in a breath when he peels back the bandages. His touch is deliberate, methodical, but impossibly gentle, cleaning each scrape with antiseptic.
“Hate that this happened,” he mutters.
The warmth of his fingers trace along my injured skin. He’s careful not to press where it hurts, taping fresh gauze in place with a precision that speaks of too much experience patching up wounds. He exhales slowly and leans back.
“Done.” He doesn’t move away though. He continues to study my back, like he’s committing every bruise and cut to memory. Then he snaps the first-aid kit shut and stands, taking a step towards the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
I get up from the bed and turn out the light. Without bothering to change my clothes, I crawl back onto the soft as hell mattress. I feel relaxed, remembering the way his fingers felt gliding over my skin. I force it out of my head along with every other fucked up thing in my life right now. Instead, I concentrate on my current book, imagining the story. Right when I think there’s no possibility I’ll fall asleep in a bed that smells so much like him, I do.
~ Griffin Colson ~
A GUN IS DISASSEMBLEDon the cleaning mat in front of me. My coffee is already cold by the time she comes padding down the hallway, rubbing her eyes. All thoughts I had on my plans for the day vanish. It doesn’t look like she’s hurting as much this morning. Other than a slight stiffness, she seems fine.
Turning my attention to my weapon, I clear my throat. “Sleep okay?”
“Your bed is really soft,” she mumbles sleepily.
The reminder that her body was between my sheets last night has me shifting in my chair. She walks over to her bags by the door.
“Hungry?” I clean out the barrel again, forgetting I am reassembling it.
“I’m alright.” She bends over to rummage through her suitcase.
The bruises on her upper and lower arms are visible. The bandage on her back held up well through the night. But that’s not where my eyes are. Her flowy top rides up and there’s nothing but soft cotton over her round ass. An ass that is turned directly at me.
“Christ,” I mutter, dropping the barrel on the table with a clatter. “Gonna go check the perimeter.” I’m pissed at myself because I’m split between protecting her and wanting her in ways that complicate the hell out of this situation.
I yank open the front door and walk out into the cool morning air, hoping it will clear my head and calm... other things. I pace the length of the clearing, forcing my mind to focus on the mission. The threat of Sokolov, the possibility of his men tracking her here, a way to take down the whole operation without getting either of us killed. But no matter how hard I try, it strays right back to supple curves and injured wings. I stare into the forest, bracing myself against a tree, before closing my eyes. I concentrate on breathing, exhaling through the tension in my body. Focus, Griffin. Focus on the job, not on her.
I’m so lost in thought that I almost don’t hear the crunch of gravel. I draw my pistol, pressing it flat against my thigh as I melt into the shadows. My breathing slows, every sense is razor-focused on that sound. Another crunch, closer this time. Then a flicker of movement. I don’t hesitate. I fire a single shot into the ground inches from the intruder’s boot.
“The next one goes between your eyes,” I growl. “Show yourself.”
“For fuck’s sake, Griffin. Put the gun down before you give me a goddamn heart attack!” Jax steps into view, his cocky smirk in place despite the new groove in his boot tread. His hands are raised in front of him. “You always greet visitors with bullets?” He eyes the barrel pointed at him. “Cause that’s pretty rude, man.”
I lower my pistol with a muttered curse. “What the hell are you doin’ here, Jax? You were supposed to wait for me to call.”
“Yeah, well.” He rolls his eyes and walks closer. “When you’re radio silent almost eighteen hours after telling me you foundSokolov, I start assuming shit went south.” He nods toward the cabin. “She in there?”
I holster my gun and cross my arms over my chest, glancing toward the front porch.
“Damn. So it did go south.” He whistles, his grin widening. “Just not in the way I thought.”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He raises an eyebrow, looking from me to the cabin. “That she’s pretty,” he says like he’s being helpful. Which, of course, means he’s provoking me and getting a fucking kick out of it. “You playing personal bodyguard? That shit’s never happened before. So there’s only one reason.”
The front door swings open. Seriph runs out onto the porch in the process of yanking a T-shirt over her head. She’s barefoot and wearing skin-tight flared blue jeans.
