She looks at me for the first time since walking into the kitchen. Her gaze starts at my forearms and slowly makes its way up my biceps. It’s like she’s caressing my tattoos with her eyes. She makes it to my chest and then down my abs, before I clear my throat. Did she drop her things when she came into the kitchen because I’m not wearing a shirt? Despite my irritation, I can’t fight the slight twitch of my lips.
Her focus snaps to my face, her cheeks pink. “Bullshit? For not sitting here like a damsel in distress waiting for you to sweep me off my feet? I don’t have expectations of you because I don’texpectyou to want me. I’m grateful for your help but I haven’t disillusioned myself into thinking this is something it isn’t.”
She doesn’t expect me to want her? Is she blind? I’ve been giving her space because of what happened to her but it’s beenthe hardest thing I’ve ever had to fucking do. I’ve been fighting to keep my hands to myself every time I’ve been anywhere near her. I stand up and move around the table so fast, she doesn’t have time to react. I plant my hands on either side of her chair, caging her in as I lean down until my face is inches from hers.
“Then let me make this crystal fuckin’ clear.” My voice is a low rumble. “You just went through hell. I didn’t want to push you into somethin’ you aren’t ready for.” My eyes bore into hers. “Because I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.” I pull in a ragged breath, affected by the mere proximity of her. “And that’s why I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
Her breath falters and her eyes widen. I can practically see the thoughts racing through her head. That fucking adorable crease in her brow is back, my fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and smooth it away. She’s searching my face like I’m an anomaly, like there’s no possible way I could be telling her the truth. The fact she doubts that I could want her is as exasperating as her believing I could regret the best thing that’s fucking happened to me in years. “Say somethin’.”
“You can’t.”
“Why the hell not?” The way she doubts herself makes the frustration inside me go white hot.
She’s so goddamn used to the bullshit people feed her, that she’d rather shut down than believe me. It should infuriate me, but it makes me more determined to break through the armor she’s built up. I reach out, my fingers lightly brushing her jawline.
“Because men like you don’t want women like me,” she answers timidly.
“Men like me?” Her words are like a punch to the gut. My voice is low and dangerous. “You mean broken mercenaries with blood on their hands?” I lean in closer, my lips brushing thecurve of her ear. “Wildflower, if you think you’re too good for me—”
“No! No, that’s not what I meant, Griffin!” She pushes her chair back, putting space between us. “I mean men who look like they descended from Mount fucking Olympus, don’t want women who areshapedlike me!” She gestures at her body, like it’s somehow obvious why I shouldn’t want her. Then stands and bolts toward the hallway.
Before she can escape, my hand snaps out and catches her wrist. I pull her toward me, yanking hard enough to spin her around. My other arm bands around her waist, holding her fully against me.
“You think I give a single fuck about what some magazine or Hollywood prick says is attractive?” My fingers dip into the curve of her hip. “You’re all soft edges and fire.” My voice is hushed. “You think I don’t ache for you? That I don’t lay awake at night imaginin’ how your body would feel under mine?” I draw back and look into her eyes. “Fuck expectations.”
My mouth crashes down onto hers, rough and hungry. My lips move desperately, like without her I might drown. I push her against the wall and my hands slide up under her shirt. The feel of her skin against my palm ignites a fire in me that has me growing hard.
I don’t register her clawing at my chest. She shoves me as hard as she can and I let go. I pull out of her tank top and take two steps back, giving her space. My heart is pounding. Tears build in her eyes and she doesn’t seem to recognize her surroundings. The wall. Shit.
I don’t move closer but when I speak my voice is rough with regret. “You with me?”
She closes her eyes but doesn’t say anything. She can’t catch her breath. She’s fucking terrified. I step back further. She’shaving a panic attack. Because my dumbass pushed her against a fucking wall. I know what happened to her and I did it anyway.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “Focus on breathin’.” I rub the back of my neck. “Fuck, Seriph. I should’ve known better. I’m sorry.”
I walk to the sink, gripping the counter with both hands. My head drops forward, shoulders rigid. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” I say quietly. “But we’re doin’ this at your pace.” I grab my shirt from where it’s draped over a chair and tug it on. I want to give her space, give her control. There’s no frustration left in me, only quiet resolve. “Tell me what you need.”
She shakes her head, shrugging it off. She sits back down at the table. She doesn’t take a bite of her food. Seeing her like this and knowing it was my fault cuts deeper than anything the fuckers I hunt could do.
“It–it was the wall... It wasn’t you,” she stammers.
I don’t want to move wrong and fuck this up more than I already have. I study her before asking softly, “Do you need me to leave?”
She doesn’t answer me, she doesn’t move. She’s embarrassed, like she blames herself for a reaction I should have known would happen. It’s only been three fucking days. I’m bandaging her back at night and I shove her against a wall. I’m the worst kind of asshole. I sigh and fill a glass of water, setting it carefully on the table next to her plate before backing away again.
“I’m gonna step outside,” I mutter, “give you space. You don’t have to answer me right now.” I pull my boots on at the door, before slipping outside.
A few hours later, I pull in and park in front of Bishop’s building. I didn’t leave until Jax showed up to stay with Seriph. She wasin the bedroom after I came inside and didn’t come out before I left. I’m gripping the steering wheel imagining it’s the throats of the cunts that broke her. I’ve never wanted someone the way I want her and I can’t even touch her because they stole her peace. I can’t expect her to trust me after what she’s been through. I have to go slow, let her set the pace. I have to be prepared for months, hell, years of possible panic attacks and PTSD. When this shit is over and the threat of Sokolov isn’t hovering over her head, I’ll talk to her about therapy. After this morning, how do I convince her I’d never do anything she doesn’t want me to? I hope I didn’t fuck this up before I had something worth holding onto.
My thoughts are dark when I make it to the interrogation room. It’s bare bones, concrete walls, a single metal table, and two chairs. I stand by the door, flicking my pocket knife open and closed. Viktor and Stepan are brought in, sporting more visible injuries than the last time I saw them; bruises, black eyes, and swollen lips. Stepan looks worse than Viktor after the beating I gave him at the warehouse. Bishop put them through the ringer for information on Sokolov’s whereabouts. He already told me that they don’t know anything. They were too low in the pecking order to be brought in on the important shit. Luckily for me and not so much for them, they’ve outlived their usefulness.
I push off the wall and move to the table. They are forced to sit and their wrists and ankles are cuffed to the chairs, locking them in place. They glare at me, but there's a flash of fear in their eyes. They know. They know that I defended her that day in the store, that I know what they did.
I bend down to the duffel bag under the table. I told Bishop my plans and he had the tools waiting for me. The sick fuck thinks what I intend to do is hilarious. He’s standing in the other corner, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall. Observing, supporting. He’s here to keep me from going too far.Not that I am worried about keeping my soul intact. I lost that years ago.
I take the items out of the bag. A table vise, a blow torch, a thin metal rod, and a heavy mallet. I line them up side by side. Stepan and Viktor watch me warily. The color drains from their faces. Neither of them says anything, they have no idea of what’s coming. Fear and anger flicker through their expressions, their bravado wavering under my slow deliberate actions.
I take the table vise and kneel between Stepan’s legs. I shove his knees apart and attach it to the front of his chair, between his thighs.
