Frankie’s scent.
I hardly notice the rush of fresh air pouring into my lungs, the sweaty grip suddenly gone from my neck, before I’m rising up and my hand is curling around the warm handle in Adam’s pocket. Shit, my muscles are mush under my weight, and my vision blurs through the rage and drugs. But I flip the knife so its sharp point is aimed behind me and slice blindly where Griff’s body heat touches my back.
A garbled noise sounds from over my shoulder. I take a few deep breaths but give up when they fail to calm my frantic heart rate.
Finally, I look back.
Adam towers over me, his blue eyes dark and cold in a way I’ve never seen. He’s got Griff locked in a chokehold, less than a foot from me. I was right—even red-faced and drained of air, Griff’s eyes are wild, rabid. And fixated on me. My hairs stand up, bumps rising on my arms and legs.
Though his face gives nothing away, the muscles in Adam’s forearms strain as he intensifies his grip, until suddenly, Griff snaps out of it. His eyes glaze over, then die down to the black holes I’m familiar with. Adam relaxes his hold some, and Griff fights for what little air he can get. Despite the veins bulging in his neck as he loses more oxygen than he gains, his expression shifts to irritation, even impatience. Not a shred of fear. Almost like he’s used to these types of warnings.
His eyes turn to slits as he flicks them to me, his hands wrapping around Adam’s wrist, and a splash of red pulls my eyes down to just above his elbow. It’s not much of a tear, but a light layer of blood drips from the jagged cut, and it stirs a surprising flutter of satisfaction within me.
Eventually, Adam releases his brother and steps back so I’m sandwiched between them again. As Griff grapples for air, the ice in Adam’s expression thaws. He leisurely smooths out his shirt, readjusts his rolled-up sleeves.
Tension rolls off Griff in waves as he straightens and stares me down. His breaths are steadying, but an angry red tinges his coloring. His shoulders stiffen, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to lunge for me, but Adam stops him with a single look.
“You’ll calm the fuck down before you move.” Adam’s voice is low, controlled.
Griff withdraws a dark red handkerchief from his breast pocket and presses it to the wound. He aims his laser stare above my head, at Adam. His face morphs into a scowl, but he tucks himself back into his pants and zips up. He glances at me, rakes his tongue over his top teeth. “You like blood, do you?” He steps closer until his shoe hits my knee. “I’ll remember that when this one lets you off his leash.” He nods toward Adam, then shakes his head and backs away. He whirls around when he reaches the door and exits without another word.
My ears are still pounding when Adam slides his gaze down to me. He lowers until he’s kneeling, then shifts his eyes between mine. In heavy silence, I wait—for what, I don’t know. For his approval? For him to throw me out?
His mouth curves, just barely. “Not bad, for a mouse.”
My brows knit at the second use of that reference, but my heart rate only picks up as he continues to stare at me. Analyze me.
His gaze drifts down, landing on my thigh. His Adam’s apple bobs and a muscle in his jaw tightens once, twice. My lips part, but then I look down to see for myself. It takes a second for my vision to focus. A smooth line of crimson decorates the outside of my upper leg. It’s a bold shade of red, like something I’d paint with. Thick on the white canvas of my skin, curving down at the corners in a dramatic frown. I hadn’t even realized I cut myself.
I flinch at the sting when Adam slowly drags a finger across the open cut, but he doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. His eyes are locked on the wound, and mine on the mesmerized look set across his face. He closes his eyes, his hand curling around my leg and warming my skin. His expression is pained, his grip clenching, as though forcing himself to stop.
He doesn’t look at me when he abruptly stands. A shaky breath escapes me, my skin cooling in the absence of his touch. Like Griff, he turns for the exit. “Clean yourself up,” he mutters, irritation clipping his voice.
Then he’s gone.
A slow, dramatic clap fills the room, making me start. I groggily shift my head to find Raife rising from the chair. At some point, I’d forgotten all about him. He walks toward me, still clapping with each step until he stops in front of me.
“Well I certainly didn’t seethatcoming, though I think I should praise you.” He beams as he looks me up and down. “Worth every penny.” He extends a hand. After a moment, I take it, allowing him to carefully pull me to my feet.
My legs wobble, a rush of awareness still pulsing beneath my skin, and this time, I don’t have an excuse. As much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, I wouldn’t be fooling anyone if I tried. I think we all know that, in the end, the drug’s influence over me had little to do with losing my sanity.
