Page 29 of Grace

He steals a slice from my plate, and the thin toast cracks loudly beneath his strong teeth. He flashes me an overwhelming smile, topped off with a wink.

I smile at how cheeky and relaxed he is—and how much he tries to make me feel comfortable in my own skin. Day in, day out.

“Naughty,” I mumble, letting out a soft sigh through my slightly parted lips as I watch him run his fingers through his wet, dark hair, cool drops of water sliding down his bare torso.

He pulls a black tank top over his head and downs his coffee in one gulp. No combing his hair, no checking the mirror. Cyrus likes to look wild and free. He’s wearing a pair of fashionable, loose black jeans that don’t cling to the lines of his muscular legs and butt—but draw attention to them anyway. The melodious clink of the chains clipped to his side forms a rhythmic counterpoint to his heavy steps.

His rich, fresh, masculine scent fills the tiny kitchen, making a certain place in my body throb.

My hormones are unpredictable.

I enjoy these moments. They’re warm and satisfying, because Cyrus can touch the woman buried deep inside me without touching me physically. He’s fighting for my trust—and I’d love nothing more than to hand it over to him on a golden platter. But there are other moments—dark, cold, and terrifying. I keep switching between the two, and I never know which Grace I’ll get at any given time.

After waking up, the thought of kissing him revolted me, but now… now I feel like I could go even further than a kiss.

“We’re taking different cars.”

His voice is light and smooth, but the message beneath it makes my skin crawl.

“Today too?” I sigh bitterly and bore my sad eyes into his.

“I’m undercover, Grace.”

“I know, but I don’t like it anyway.”

I cross my arms like a petulant child, but my eyes are as unyielding as my mom’s used to be.

Cyrus shakes his head and ties his shoelaces.

“I’m more scared of that look than of any shithead in this area,” he jokes.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Cyrus crouches down beside me, brushes the wet hair stuck to his face back with his fingers, and looks at me as if I were a million-dollar prize.

Warmth fills my chest, and a sweet tingling runs through my body.

I cup his face in my palm and kiss his full lips. When he deepens the kiss, the wet warmth and pleasant throbbing in my most intimate place make me want more. My fingers comb through his wet hair, and I set my feet on the cool floor where I’d been sitting cross-legged. My bare thighs rest against Cyrus’s naked shoulders, against his hot skin.

I’m afraid, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Still, this might be the moment we’ve both been waiting for. Maybe this is where I will become someone capable of living in a normal relationship with him. Someone who is worthy of being with him.

“Grace… Don’t cry, Grace,” he whispers against my lips. His voice tears me out of the sweetness and yanks me back into bitter reality. My weakness slaps me in the face. My heart twists.

“I’m so sorry, Cyrus,” I whisper with my eyes shut. I’m trembling—the shaking sinks into my bones, and big tears roll down my face.

“Believe me, I’d be the happiest person alive if I could…” I shake my head like a rabid dog. The air is stuck in my dry throat.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I know how hard you’re trying. But you shouldn’t force it just to make me happy.”

Anger floods my body. My hand clenches into a fist, and I slam it into my thigh in frustration. The impact goes deep, radiating along my femur. I’m hurting myself. But this pain passes quickly—while the pain deep inside doesn’t. That torment doesn’t go away, doesn’t even subside. It’s an eternal, loud, howling storm, its low notes driving me crazy. I’m constantly running from it.

I’m mad at Nikky, Bo, and his gang. I’m mad at Chase Baker and Mr. Miller—but I’m most angry with myself.

Cyrus wipes the tears from my face and asks me to open my eyes. Without a word.

I don’t want to look into those dark eyes that, for years, have held nothing but irritating pity. Because twenty-year-old Grace McCarty is suffering from severe emotional constipation, sitting on the ruins of her life, wallowing in bitter, ashen self-pity.

“It’s only been two years, Grace. Give yourself time.”

My eyes fly open.