I break it off and murmur, “Yeah, well...” My voice is a little rougher than usual. “Don’t get used to it.” I lie, I’ll do this every day for the rest of our lives if it keeps her looking at me like that. “Now go sit down before I decide bein’ nice was a mistake and turn you over my knee anyway.”
“You know if you ever do that we really will fight.”
“I’m countin’ on it,” I grin unapologetically. We both know I’ve already done it, she just doesn’t want to admit she liked it as much as I did. My hand shifts lower, fingertips teasing the edge of her waistband before I pull away swatting her ass playfully instead. “Now be a good little Wildflower, sit your ass down, and let me take care of you.” I give her one more chaste kiss to the side of her neck before nudging her in the right direction.
She does as I say without any more protest. Sidling over to the couch and burrowing into the blankets. We settle in for the night. I sit next to her and she lays her head in my lap. Her cramps eventually come back and I make her stay while I goafter the ibuprofen. After she takes it, I rub her lower stomach gently, massaging and adding counter pressure until she falls asleep.
I don’t move after she drifts off, my fingers trace idle circles on her stomach long after her breathing evens out. I know I should get up, check the cameras, the locks downstairs, call Jax for an update, something. But right now? The only thing that matters is the weight of her against me and the way her eyelashes flutter when she sighs in her sleep.
My phone goes off in my pocket, probably Jax with some smartass remark about me going soft. I ignore it. Instead, I lean down and press my lips to her forehead before adjusting the blanket around us both. The movie plays on. The night stretches silent and safe around her. And I know this is exactly where I belong.
~ Griffin Colson ~
MOVING THE HEATINGpad to the bedroom, I put her to bed and place a bottle of water and the ibuprofen on the bedside table. On my way to the bathroom to get ready to join her, I remember my phone. I pull it out of my pocket half expecting Jax’s usual smartassery, but the text notification isn’t from him. It’s from Bishop. Fuck.
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Bishop:Sokolov made contact with one of his safe houses near the border You in?
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For the first time ever, I hesitate. My thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment before I type back.
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Me:Give me 45 minutes send me the coordinates
[]
I pocket the phone and stare at my reflection. My jaw tight, my storm-gray eyes shadowed. I know what’s coming; blood, ruthlessness, that old familiar emptiness creeping back in. But this time? I have something worth coming home to. This causes two different reactions in me. One is familiar but heightened ina way it never was before, a fierce determination to get the job done and come back breathing. The other? Fear. I’ve never been afraid that I wouldn’t come back alive. But the idea of leaving her to face this shit alone terrifies me.
I don’t linger on it. I go to the closet and grab my go bag. Checking my equipment and weapons with mechanical precision. Something unfamiliar tugs at me. I pause long enough to scribble a note on the back of a receipt from my wallet. My handwriting is crap but legible.
Had to run. Be back soon.
-G
I leave it pinned under her phone on the nightstand, then press my lips to her bare shoulder right where the lines of those feathered wings begin. I pause at the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing in the moonlight. The door clicks shut behind me like the safety locking into place.
I climb into my jeep, tossing the duffel into the passenger seat. The second I get it started, my phone buzzes again. This time it is Jax.
“Yeah?”
“You sound like a man who got his balls handed to him by five feet of stubborn witch.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“You call to psychoanalyze me or you got intel?” I respond with my own reluctant amusement because he’s right. She does in fact have a firm hold on my balls. And I’m not mad about it.
“Both,” he says cheerfully. “But seriously, coordinates pinged. Sokolov’s holed up in that old hunting lodge off Route 17. Bishop’s already rolling with four guys. You sure you wanna do this tonight? After everything with Seriph today?”
My grip on the wheel tightens. The answer is simple, always has been. “He threatened her.” My voice is lethally quiet. “So yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.”
“Copy that. I’ll loop you into Bishop’s comms. And Griff?” All humor is gone now. “Don’t do anything stupid enough to make me explain to your woman why you didn’t come home.”
I don’t dignify that with a response, ending the call and gunning the engine. The jeep tears through backroads like it’s chasing vengeance, headlights cutting through trees as my phone pings with coordinates and schematics from Jax. My hands already miss the feel of something softer.
I kill the lights and park in a clearing with enough distance away that the sound of the engine won’t be heard. The hunting lodge is a relic of a bygone era, all faded stone and peeling paint. The surrounding area is dark and quiet, save for the single floodlight over the main door. I climb out into the night, boots landing silently in the long grass. Scanning the grounds for weak points, I cross to the corner of the building. A low murmur of voices drifts through an open window.
I creep around, crouching in the shadows by the sill. It sounds like there’s a group of them inside, one of them is definitely Sokolov—that cold smug Russian accent is easy to make out. The other voices sound local. There’s snippets of conversation about a shipment. I wait in the darkness, patience from years of hunting kicks in causing me to go almost motionless as I listen. It’s an old habit, one that makes it easy to wait people out without giving anything away. My fingers curl around the knife strapped to my thigh, to feel the weight of it.
