“I hate it when you pull out that fortune cookie bullshit.” I turn to head inside. He chuckles and claps a hand on my shoulder, falling into step beside me.
The two cartel enforcers follow me to the interrogation room, with their polished suits and cold eyes. They don’t speak as I jerk my head at the door, motioning for them to go inside. One of them steps forward and hands me a thick envelope from his inner jacket pocket. I tuck it away without counting it. The amount is right, they always pay upfront for high value targets. They go into the room. We stand in the hallway while we wait for them to come out with Stepan and Viktor.
“Remind me not to piss you off, man,” one of them says.
Viktor stumbles and falls against the wall. I smirk and nod as they pass by. Stepan’s stilted gait fills me with dark satisfaction. Neither man fights, they know they’re already dead. And after what I did to them, they might be grateful for it.
~ Seriphina Joseph ~
IT’S BEEN A WEEK ANDa half since Griffin brought me to his cabin. Jax left town yesterday. They decided that although it’s not safe for me to return to my loft, I don’t need around the clock babysitting anymore. Since the morning he kissed me and pushed me against the wall, Griffin has kept his distance. Where Jax watches movies with me or plays card games, Griffin won’t even share a meal with me. He brought me takeout a few times and bought a couple of my favorite tea blends but that’s all the interaction we’ve had.
I don’t know how to feel about it. On one hand, I’m grateful for the space so I can deal with my emotions. On the other hand, I tasted him—twice. And it’s the only thing I can fucking think about now. I can’t tell if he decided he actually isn’t attracted to me or if my panic attack scared him off so badly he thinks I’m not worth the trouble. Either way, I’m over the silent treatment.
Every night, when he gets back to the cabin, he pours a glass of whiskey. Then he closes himself in the weapons room until I go to bed. No matter how late it is, he doesn’t ask me to leave so he can rest. I finish whatever I’m doing—the chapter I’m reading, the episode I’m watching, or the house of cardsI’m building. Then I get up, gather my things, and head to the bedroom. I tap on the door on my way to bed. It’s been this way for days.
I’m sick of it. And I’m bored. Not really a good combination. I spend the entire day rearranging things. I take all of the books on his shelf and alphabetize them backwards. I’m pretty sure he had them organized by type. I move everything in the kitchen. What was on the left side of the kitchen is on the right and vice versa. Anything that was in the upper cabinets is now in the lower cabinets. I do the same thing to the fridge. The remote to the television is always in the table closest to the bar. I move it to the opposite table. I’m even so petty, I put the toilet paper rolls on backwards. He’s lucky he locks the weapons room when he leaves because if I could find a way in there I would mess with it too.
Griffin comes home, looking exhausted. His hair is damp from the rain. He smells faintly like gunpowder and pine trees. I watch him from the corner of my eye, reading while huddled on the couch. He toes off his boots by the door before padding toward the kitchen, already reaching for the cabinet where his whiskey glasses used to be.
“The hell—?” He blinks at the assortment of spices occupying that space instead. His brow furrows as he opens cabinets, one after the other. He turns to me. “You.” His voice is flat and accusatory. “What did you do?”
I look up at him, trying very hard to keep a straight face. “What?”
He walks toward me, unamused. He looms over the couch, arms crossed. “Wildflower,” he says slowly, “my kitchen does not have a fuckin’ teleportation spell.” He pauses when he notices the bookshelf. “And my books definitely didn’t move on their own.”
I shrug and focus back on my book, sucking my lips between my teeth to keep from grinning. He grunts, leaning down and bracing on the back of the couch near my shoulder, flicking my book shut with a snap.
“Real funny,” he mutters by my ear.
He straightens and goes for the remote in the side table. I have to stifle a giggle when he doesn’t find it and looks down at the drawer like it personally offended him. He systematically searches the living room. He checks beneath the couch cushions, on the mantle below the TV, he looks behind the alcohol on the bar.
When he comes up empty, he stands up and plants his hands on his hips. He glares at nothing in particular then breathes out a low curse. His eyes shift to me. “You’re enjoyin’ this,” he accuses.
“Maybe a little.” I smile at him.
He stares at me. His lips part slightly. But then he blinks and before I know what’s happening, he snatches the throw pillow from beside me and whacks me square in the face with it. It’s gentle enough it doesn’t hurt, but firm enough to get his point across.
“Little shit,” he grumbles but there’s no animosity. If anything he sounds affectionate.
“Hey!” I retaliate by throwing the pillow at him.
He catches it one handed, then immediately chucks it back at me with deadly accuracy. There’s a glint of something dangerously playful in his eyes. “You started this.” He points out, while reaching for a second pillow like a man preparing for war.
I squeak and try to dodge. I use my hands to soften the blow. I grab another one and hold it up like a shield as he moves to hit me again. He advances, ready to break down my pillow shield with brute force.
“This is what you get,” he taunts, lifting the pillow and aiming for my head, “for messin’ up my house.”
“I fixed it!” I argue. I grab another pillow and swing it.
He stumbles as my pillow hits him in the ribs. His hand flies to his side as if he’s been wounded. He growls, playfully. Then lunges again, faster this time. He knocks the pillow from my hand before pinning me against the couch, his knees on either side of my hips, his hands bracing my wrists to keep me from wiggling free. “Gotcha,” he grins, eyes glittering with victory.
My chest is heaving as I struggle halfheartedly. “Alright, alright. You win!” I giggle and my eyes land on his smile. It takes my breath away. I’ve seen him smirk before but his grin is devastating.
The air feels charged, the tension shifting from playful to something that makes my stomach flip. He feels it too because his gaze darkens and his muscles tense.
My lips part slightly, eyes glued to his mouth. He sucks in a breath, something feral and hungry passes through his expression.
“Goddamn it,” he says hoarsely. Then he lets go of my wrists. His hand slides into my hair, tipping my chin up as he leans forward to bring his mouth down over mine.
