“See, that wasn’t so hard,” he drawls, dripping with smug satisfaction. “Isn’t it so much better when you’re willing tonegotiate?” He leans in and his thumb trails over my lips in a mockery of tenderness.
“So, we done here?” The bald one shifts impatiently, sounding disappointed.
“Yep, store’s ours when we need it.” He pats my face, like I’m a pet who decided to obey. “Let her go.”
They release me and I fall to the damp ground. My flesh scraping brick as I slide down. They leave me there like a discarded ragdoll; dirty, used, and bloody, walking away with their sick jokes left hanging in the air.
I sit there recovering, grabbing the remains of my dress to cover myself. I finally manage to stand and stumble over to the backdoor. Once inside, I lock it and flip off the lights. Careful to avoid a direct line of sight to the large front glass windows, I crawl up the stairs to my loft. My feet pad across the floor as I head straight for the shower. I turn the knob for the hot water to full blast. My ruined dress falls to the floor and I step in. Sinking down, a trail of blood marks the tile as I curl into myself. What have I done?
The hot water pours over me, steam filling the small room. It burns, but I don’t register it. Everything feels distant, hazy, like I’m navigating through fog. The pulsating sting in my back and sides is a welcome distraction. I can focus on that and almost forget the shame and defilement knotting my insides.
What have I done? The question repeats in my mind. I survived, but at what cost? It doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like defeat. Like I gave them a part of myself I’ll never get back. There’s a hollowed out ache where my fire and my defiance used to be.
I scrub until I’m raw. No amount of washing can rinse away the violation clinging to me like shadows. The worst part? I can still smell them, burned into my nose with the scent of leather and cheap cologne. It presses into my memory like fingertips ona bruise. A strangled sound escapes me, half sob, half scream, drowned out by the drumming of the water. I crush my hand over my mouth to stifle it because I’m afraid if I let myself start screaming, really screaming, I may never stop.
~ Griffin Colson ~
I CAN’T GET THAT BOOKSTOREout of my head. Well, not really the bookstore, but the woman who walked into it. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in a sparse, dimly lit motel room, rolling a bullet between my fingers like a worry stone. The memory of her, her laugh, the way she lights up the room, is burned in the back of my mind like an afterimage. It’s dangerous to linger on her. It’s dangerous to want her. I scowl and pocket the round, standing abruptly. Focus, Griffin. I have contracts piling up; loose ends that need cutting before they tangle around me too tightly. But as I check the clip in my pistol, there’s a gnawing itch. What if? What if I walked into that shop again and she’s there? What if I let myself have this one damn thing? My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt at how soft that sounds. Survival doesn’t come with luxuries like ‘what if?’ Not for men like me.
Walking to my jeep from a diner on Main Street, I look up. The sign ‘Moonglow’ shines above me with a purple background andwhite lettering, the ‘O’s are crescent moons. My gut tells me something is off. The lights are out, but the door reads 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. There’s an eerie sort of stillness. My senses alert, I hone in on the lack of movement. I cup my hands over the glass, peering inside. I don't find anything to soothe this feeling of unease.
I decide to walk around back. My footsteps are soundless in the dark alley. My eyes adjust to the lack of light and hair prickles the back of my neck. Time spent operating in deadly situations has taught me to trust that instinct, that feeling. Something is definitely wrong here.
I glance around and a flash of color catches my attention. That’s when I see it, torn fabric in the corner by the dumpster, a pair of flip-flops and a hair clip. I don’t have to get closer to tell there’s a pair of ripped women’s underwear. I freeze solid and my stomach drops.
The fire escape ladder hangs low enough—I jump, catching the bottom rung. I hoist myself up to the platform, barely making a sound. My knife is in my hand before I'm completely balanced. The window to the loft apartment is closed but not locked. I pry gently at the wood, nudging it open. Then I smell it, the copper scent of blood, mixed with tea and incense.
Kicking into survival mode, adrenaline floods my veins. My shoulders tense and I strengthen the grip on my knife. I slip inside, taking in the details of the living area, the kitchen beyond it.
A sound, so soft I almost miss it, stops me dead in my tracks. A stifled sob. My boots are quiet and my body is wound tight, every sense razor-sharp. I stalk to the bathroom door, blade angled low. The shower’s running, steam curls through the air. Another muffled sob. And then I see her.
Her knees are pulled up and there’s blood on the tile behind her. She’s as far in the corner as you can go. Her skin is scrubbed raw. She’s covered in mottled bruises—handprints on her wrists,upper arms, her thighs and hips. She lifts her head. My knife clatters to the floor and I don’t realize I’ve dropped it.
This isherstore.
This isherloft.
This isher.
My hands are shaking with something so much deadlier than rage; guilt. Guilt so thick it chokes because I know better. I know what men like me drag behind them when they walk into places that don’t belong in their world. And here she is, broken over my shadow without knowing why she bled for it in the first place. AlexeifuckingSokolov. I should have caught the scumbag months ago. I doubt he did this directly but I bet he’s involved. I don’t know how I know it but I do.
“Jesus Christ.”
My voice cracks in a way that shouldn’t exist for me. I cross the distance fast, too fast, stopping before I touch her because fuck if I trust myself not to make things worse. I sink down to my knees on the floor next to her, reaching up to turn off the burning faucet. The air is heavy between us, holding all the things neither one of us are ready to say.
She shrinks further into the corner, if that’s possible. And of course she does. A strange man she met yesterday barged into her bathroom after she was assaulted. She squeezes her eyes shut like she thinks I’m going to hurt her too. That she would ever think that, feels like a blow to the sternum. Every bruise, every mark on her body is a fucking indictment. A sign of my failure before I ever knew it was mine to claim. I’m braced against the shower wall, knowing I’ll crumble without it.
“Not gonna touch you,” I grate out, each word measured carefully. My tone is laced with fury at myself for not being here sooner. “But I need you to listen to me. Do you know who did this?” A dark promise that every fiber in me is waiting to fulfill.
She shakes her head. I rake my hands down my face. I can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or if she’s lying because she’s scared. I hope she’s not protecting the son-of-a-bitch that did this. If this is domestic, that could complicate things. It takes everything I have to shove the bitter hatred that’s boiling inside me back down. It’s the last thing she needs right now.
“I can help. If you let me.”
She shakes her head again. I can tell from the way she holds herself tighter, she doesn’t want me here. Hell, I’d be more concerned if she did.
“I don’t know you,” she murmurs.
Fair enough. She is smart not to trust me. My fingers flex at my side. I need to destroy whoever did this. I need their blood on my hands more than I need air in my lungs.
