“You’re standin’ there,” he mutters, “lookin’ at me like I didn’t come back drenched in blood and failure. Like I’m still worth trustin’.” His thumb brushes over my pulse point, an unconscious gesture that betrays a gentleness in him he doesn’t see. “Why?”
“Because a few days ago, someone climbed through my window to find me naked, bleeding, and bruised. He put me back together again, showed me I had fight left. I thought I’d return the favor.” I raise my hand and tentatively place my palm over his chest, moving fully into his space. It’s the closest we’ve been since I was slapped. My touch is featherlight. I’m unsure of how much he will allow. And I don’t really know how much I can handle after everything that’s happened.
He goes solid, his heart racing under my palm. The pounding of it is like a drum. Suddenly, he lets go of my wrist and cups my face. His warm hands brush against my cheeks.
I look into his eyes unwavering, determined to give him whatever comfort and support he needs. He ended up this way fighting my battles. I hate that he looks so broken and defeated. I have to find some way to help.
He swallows hard and his thumb follows the line of my jaw. The movement is slow and almost reverent. His fingers slip into my hair, tilting my head slightly and my breath catches in my throat. Before I can register what’s happening, his lips crash down on mine. It’s not gentle; there is no holding back. His kiss is all rough edges and protective fury. His other arm wraps around my waist and pulls me flush against him like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. He tastes like rain and something raw. It’s an unmistakable heady mix that’s all him. As I melt into him, my mouth opens and his tongue slips inside.
Jax clears his throat loudly from the hallway. “Awkward,” he mumbles.
Griffin breaks the kiss but doesn’t let go. He glares at him over my shoulder. “Jax,” he growls.
Jax holds up both hands. “Yep. Cool. Gonna go grab snacks. From town. Far away.” Then he leaves out the front door, slamming it shut behind him.
Griffin exhales and drops his forehead, resting it against mine. I freeze in his arms, my body tensing like a trapped animal. That half a second distraction reminds me that I can’t have this. That I’m not allowed to want this. I don’t step away but my heart rate speeds up and my breathing is faster. “I should probably...”
He curses under his breath and steps back, dropping his hands like they’ve been burned. “Yeah.” He walks to the bar, grabbing the bottle of whiskey. “You should go.”
I turn quickly and grab my things, retreating like the hounds of hell are on my heels. I reach the end of the hall and close the door, like a gate slamming shut on everything left unsaid. I crawl to the middle of his giant bed and plop down dramatically. I stare up at the ceiling while I focus on calming down.
My mind replays everything that happened. The memory of his lips on mine, the way his hands felt against my skin. He had no business being so good at that. I curse and hit the pillow. Fuck, now how am I supposed to stop wanting him? I’m not sure I’ll be able to look at him tomorrow without staring at his mouth. I bailed on him. I had this huge internal monologue about helping him with his demons and then ran the second he kissed me. The real question is what the hell do I do now?
~ Griffin Colson ~
I’M MAKING PANCAKES. My mood has only marginally improved. I can’t stop thinking about how Seriph looked fleeing from me after I kissed her. Her hair waving behind her as she scurried down the hallway. I warned her not to get too close. My control was hanging by a thread. I have no idea where we would have ended up if Jax hadn’t interrupted. After what she went through, I have no right to put my hands on her. I’m not surprised she fled. I fucked up in a big way. No matter what I do with her it’s the wrong move.
I let my rage at Stepan get in the way of taking down Sokolov. I could have had him in zip ties and on the ground with the rest of his men. Instead, I hammered Stepan into the fucking ground. I don’t do this. I don’t lose control. And the guilt from it is eating a hole in my stomach the size of Everest.
I didn’t bother with a shirt this morning, tossing it nearby and opting for sweatpants. I’m rolling sausage around in the pan when a bunch of things clatter to the floor. Seriph bends down to pick up her water bottle, phone, and e-reader. I take in her loose, flowing tank top and lace trimmed shorts. Clearing my throat, I look at the pan like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.
“Mornin’,” I mutter. I flip the pancake with more force than necessary and almost miss the pan. The tension from last night is thick and made worse by the domesticity of the moment.
“Good morning, I didn’t know you cook,” she says while looking closely at her phone screen for cracks. Her head is tilted away from me and there’s a faint blush on her cheeks.
“Occasional necessity,” I reply. Her proximity is like an electric current. “Coffee’s in the pot.” I grab two plates from the cabinet.
“Thanks.” She moves to the fridge and pours a glass of milk.
I scold myself, remembering she doesn’t drink coffee. I make a mental note to find out what kind of tea she drinks. Focusing on serving food feels safer than thinking about how she looks in those shorts, or the fact her tank top clings enough to make me curse the laws of physics. But no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps turning to that kiss, the way she froze like a deer in the headlights, the way she ran.
I serve a couple of pancakes and some sausage to her first, sliding the plate in front of her. Then I sit down across from her with my own breakfast. There’s only a table between us, but it feels like an entire football field. No, an entire stadium. I keep my eyes on my food, she does the same. I shove a forkful of pancake in my mouth.
Seriph moves her food around on her plate for a bit. “Listen, about last night...”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. I set it down with a clink. My fingers flex and I resist the urge to curl them into fists. I press them flat against the table instead. “Don’t.” My voice comes out quieter than intended. “You don’t owe me an explanation.” My eyes flick up to hers, for a second, before dropping to my plate. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
She flinches. That was not the reaction I had hoped for. Fuck. How do I wipe that hurt expression off of her face? I’m doing thisbackwards. I never say the right thing when it comes to her. I push my plate away and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Look at me.”
“No, it’s okay. Really. I knew you were running on emotions and the adrenaline of whatever happened last night.” She squares her shoulders and sits up a little straighter, refusing to look directly at me. “I didn’t have any expectations from you and I still don’t. I’m aware of what this isn’t. I have eyes.” She takes a bite of her pancakes.
My eyes narrow, anger burning through me, at myself more than her. But the way she said it so matter-of-factly, hits me deep in some half-healed wound I didn’t know I had. My chest hovers closer to the table. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
“What do you mean, what am I talking about?”
She’s acting like I’m the one that pulled away last night, like I am the one that didn’t want what happened. Is that what she thinks? That I don’t want her? She avoids my eyes again.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you actually believe that bullshit you spewed about your damn expectations.”
