Chapter 12 Grace
GRACE
Idon’t know what I expected when Peter said he was takin’ me to meet Mother Mary, but it wasn’t this tiny soul food restaurant sandwiched between a bait shop and a voodoo supply store.
The paint peeled in all the right ways, the smell of fried catfish made my stomach growl, and there was a portrait of the Virgin Mary hung up beside a neon beer sign.
She spotted us the second we walked through the door.
“Well, well well,” Mother Mary said, drawlin’ each word like it was syrup poured slow.
She stood behind the counter in a leopard print dress, her graying hair wrapped in a bright purple scarf, gold hoops nearly big enough to use as bracelets.
“If it ain’t my favorite bad boy walkin’ in like he owns the parish. ”
Hellsing gave her that crooked smirk. “Evenin’, Mary.”
“Mmhmm,” she said, eyein’ me from head to toe. “And who’s this lil’ daffodil? Lawd, child, you brought me a girl with eyes that see straight through a soul.”
Peter cleared his throat, resting a hand, low on my back. The heat from the palm of his hand felt comforting. “Mary, this here’s Grace, Virgil’s daughter.”
“Well, it’s ‘bout damn time you brought a woman I don’t have to cast a spell on to get her gone.
” She slapped a towel over her shoulder, then leaned across the counter with a wink.
“Darlin’, you keep him close, y’hear? He might look all righteous now, but that man’s been settin’ hearts on fire since he was wearin’ combat boots and your daddy’s cross. ”
I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
“You better,” she said, flicking a dish towel in Hellsing’s direction. “If you so much as blink, I’ll sic my niece on him, and she ain’t afraid to ride a man into confession.”
Peter groaned. “Mary…”
“Oh hush, you know you love it when I call you handsome.” She leaned over the booth and pinched his cheek. “Still got that wicked jawline. Lord have mercy.”
“She flirt with everybody like this?” I asked, raising a brow at him.
“Nah,” he muttered, sliding into the booth. “Just me. Been her favorite since I learned to ride a bike.”
“You mean since you got arrested on her front lawn tryin’ to impress her granddaughter,” she called from the counter, pouring us sweet tea. “He was thirteen, shirtless, and drunk off cherry cough syrup. I should’ve whooped his ass.”
He shrugged. “You did.”
“Damn right I did,” she said, laughing as she walked over with two plates already in hand. “Now eat before I get sentimental and start tellin’ stories he doesn’t want you hearin’. Y’all gonna love the shrimp po’ boy. Made it myself. Full of sin.”
She winked, then strutted back behind the counter.
I looked at him across the booth, my mouth twitchin’ with a grin. “She definitely loves you.”
“Eat up. It’ll be the best po’boy sandwich you will ever taste.
A few minutes later, I was chewing on the remnants of the most delicious sandwich I’ve ever had.
The bread was gone, and only a small spicy bite was left and I moaned as I took the last bite.
Hellsing sat across from me, watching me over the rim of his beer with that annoying tilt to his mouth that said he was waiting for trouble.
He’d been quiet since we arrived. As if he were both contemplating asking me something yet keeping it to himself.
“Can I ask you something without you biting my head off?” he suddenly broke the silence.
I sucked the sauce off one of my thumbs to avoid his questioning eyes. “What?”
“Why do you hate me so much?”
My eyes locked on him as I paused for a second before setting my sandwich down. It was an honest question, and I wasn’t really sure how to respond to it. Because, in truth, I didn’t think I ever hated him.
He watched me long enough that the color drained from my face and I pretended not to care, flagging down a waiter with the back of my hand because my coleslaw never showed itself at our table. The waiter, of course, disappeared around a corner.
“The service here sucks,” I mutter, still avoiding his gaze.
Hellsing’s stare gets thicker with impatience. “Why are you avoiding the question, Gracie?”
“Avoiding? I’m not. And don’t call me that. My Dad is the only one who gets to call me that.”
“Isn’t that what you call a child?”
“Smartass, I glared at him. It’s not important whether I hate you or not,” I answered, more flippant than I feel.
He leaned back against the seat, his hands neatly folded in front of him, the light catching the scar at his eyebrow. “Maybe not to you, but it is to me.”
I stared across at him, and a challenge ran through us.
“You’re not letting this go.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
I sigh. “Fine. I don’t hate you. Happy?”
He leaned closer so the backs of his fingers brush mine at the edge of the table. The touch is small, but it sets a spark under my skin that I chased away with the tip of my tongue. Every time Hellsing touched me, my body betrayed me.
“Then why are you always pulling away?” he asked.
“Because I can’t stand you. You’re arrogant, obnoxious and an ego-maniac.”
His smile was slow and predatory. “But you don’t hate me?”
I shake my head and go for another bite, this time of a fry. “No.”
“So, if I drive you crazy, why did you stay?”
I wiped the crumbs from my lip and looked him square in the face.
“Because I was forced to. Either I stay with you, or Jameson takes the shop. And fuck him if he thinks I’m going to let him take what I’ve worked to build.
” My voice tightens. The words come out raw and honest, and I don’t know why I’m telling him anything.
He studied me for a minute, and for an instant the hard set of him went slack. “I doubt that is what he intends.”
“He implied it, and that’s enough for me to not trust him. Jameson knows damn well he’s on my shit list.”
He laughs, a short, sharp sound. “He does, does he?”
“Hell yeah, he does. Who does he think he is?”
“The President of the Royal Bastards, Grace. And he did it for your own good.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s still on my shit list and all of you should think twice before threatening a witch.”
“Or what?” he says, plucking a fry off my plate.
I lean forward until my face is inches from his. “Or I’ll hex your balls off.”
He let out a laugh; the sound is enormous in the tiny shop. People glanced at us, smiled, and went back to their eggs. His laugh made heat move through my chest.
“You’re a trip, Desdemone. I’d come back and haunt you even as a hexed piece of meat.”
I scowled and chewed. We banter and stab at each other with the ease of people who’ve circled the block a hundred times. It kept us honest. It kept the dangerous things out of reach for a little while.
Hellsing then changes the subject and tells me about what went down in the hangar, down at the Boneyard.
“Macabre found the kid, he was shaking so bad I thought he was going to piss himself.”
“Did he?” I asked coldly. Feeling slightly apprehensive with the kid who ruined my business.
“No, but Jameson laid in on him good until the kid confessed.”
“Why did he do it?” I asked quietly.
“It was an initiation. The kid was so fucking scared; he shook when he told us the Scorpions told him to carve their mark.” Hellsing’s voice got softer as he spoke, telling me was “just a kid.” He wanted to keep him out of the system. He wanted to keep it small.
“So you just let him go?” I questioned, getting slightly angry with him. I saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands curled into his beer bottle, trying to hold himself together, and I regretted the question.
“You don’t understand what it does to you,” he says, and for the first time there’s something softer in the edge of his words. “Seeing a kid do that. The way they get dragged in. I remember what drove me. I couldn’t let him go through it.”
I instinctively reached across the table and pressed my fingertips to the back of his hand. He flinched slightly, then closed his fingers over mine. He looked at me like he’s trying to weigh whether I was dangerous or precious. I figured he could decide that on his own.
“Josh will be there first thing in the morning,” he tells me finally. “He’ll help clear the glass and anything else you need. He’ll also be watching over you when I’m not around.”
My eyes widened and I could feel that start of a flame igniting. “I knew there was something more to this.”
“I can’t watch you twenty-four-seven, Grace.”
“So, you ask a teenager? One that destroyed my establishment! Are you crazy?”
He pulled his wallet out before I could say another word.
Dropping some bills on the table, he yelled out to Mary letting him know he was covering both meals.
He grabbed my hand but I yanked it away from him.
His jaw locked and he grabbed it again, this time gripping it tightly as he proceeded to drag me out of the restaurant.
I cursed at him under my breath the entire time.
Outside, the air is hard, and the rain has stopped, leaving the street bright and clean. He offers me his jacket, and I shrug him off.
“We’re going home. I’m done arguing with you.”
“No,” I snap, the word sharp and instant. “I’m not done. I’m not going to hide.”
“You should,” he says.
I stop and spin on my heels so fast the streetlight catches my face. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
I started to walk toward the Midnight Wytch, which was only a block away, and I could feel him close on my heels.
By the time we stepped into the shop, I’d already made up my mind.
Jameson’s orders or not, I wasn’t about to give Hellsing the satisfaction of thinking I needed him.
My bag was packed and waiting by the counter, and the second he walked in, the look on his face said he knew I was about to make this difficult.
“Got your bag ready, huh?” His voice came out rough, half a growl, half amusement. “Guess I should be flattered you finally decided to listen.”
“The fuck I am. I’m going home.”
“The fuck you are,” he stated with the same tenacity that I’d used to phrase my previous statement.
I crossed my arms. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Oh, sweetheart, everything with you is hard,” he muttered, snatching the bag off the floor.
“We’re heading out now,” he ordered.
I huffed, folding my arms tighter as he stomped outside. I followed quietly and watched him curse under his breath while tying the bag to the back of his bike. His muscles strained under that damn cut, and I could tell every one of his movements was sharp with irritation.
When he came back, his expression said he’d run out of patience. “You done poutin’, or you need another five minutes to pretend you’re in charge?”
“Go to hell,” I snapped.
“Already been there, darlin’,” he said, grabbing me by the waist before I could protest.
I hit his chest with both hands, but he barely flinched. “Let go of me!”
“Not a chance.” His voice dropped, it was low and dangerous, but not cruel. Then he lifted me clean off the ground and set me on the bike…hard.
I gasped. “Asshole.”
He leaned close enough for me to feel his breath at my ear. “Keep callin’ me names, and I’ll make sure to chain you down on this seat and make this ride as uncomfortable as I can for you. Sit still.”
I glared daggers at him, but my body stayed put. He climbed in front of me, started the engine, and the roar shook through my chest. The sound was deep, wild, and familiar, the kind of noise that made you feel alive even when everything else was falling apart.
“Hold on,” he said.
“I’d rather fall off.”
“Then you’ll fall with me.” He revved the engine once before pulling out onto the road.
The ride to his place near the cemetery was a blur of wind and frustration. I couldn’t tell if I was angry at him or at the fact that part of me liked being there, pressed close to his back, feeling his heartbeat through his jacket, the steady rhythm grounding me against my will.
When we finally pulled into the gravel drive, I jumped off before the bike even stopped rolling. He barely got the kickstand down before I was storming toward the door.
“Jesus Christ, woman,” he barked, slamming the door behind us. “You ever stop movin’ long enough to listen?”
“Maybe if you stopped barking orders like some kind of wannabe dictator, I would!”
He threw my bag onto the floor, jaw tight, eyes cutting toward me. “You’re under my roof now. You’ll do as I say.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll make sure you sleep outside with the ghosts,” he shot back.
I marched past him, shoving the door to the guest room so hard it rattled the frame. “Drop dead, Hellsing!”
He laughed. A deep, infuriating sound that followed me as I slammed the door in his face.
Inside, the walls felt too close, the scent of leather and smoke wrapping around me, reminding me that this was his space. My heart wouldn’t slow down. Anger churned in me, but beneath it, something else pulsed. Something warmer, and hungrier.
I pressed my palms to the door, trying to steady myself. I hated him. But as I stripped off my jacket and caught sight of his shirt still hanging on the chair from the last time I’d been here, my stomach twisted. As much as I wanted to hate him, it was a lie I kept telling myself.
What I wanted wasn’t to make him suffer. It was to pull him into this room, push him onto the bed, and lose myself in him until the world outside disappeared.
I hated that he made me feel safe. I hated that part of me wanted Peter Hellsing back in my bed again, keeping me warm, keeping me whole, and keeping the nightmares away.