Chapter GRIFFIN
GRIFFIN
My vision blurs. It was all strange. Fast.
Seraphim was like a mirage. He appeared and then suddenly vanished, and there was nothing to confirm that I hadn’t completely lost my mind. Nothing but a tingling in my fingers where I’d felt his skin. Perfect skin. The marks of old, thin cuts looked just like... sketch lines of a masterpiece.
I don’t know where my head was. Not really.
I got a message from Alexei, saying it was urgent, but it wasn’t from his usual number.
I should have been suspicious. I should have noticed that it wasn’t him the instant the streets leading to this warehouse were too empty, that the guards had disappeared, that the sedan wasn’t following me anymore.
That was my confirmation. Seraphim really did appear to give me a final prophecy: Alexei’s brother digging into me, because who knows what Alexei is doing or inventing out there.
It was more adrenaline than anything.
The warehouse lights came on. The metal door slammed shut behind me. The trap. Six of them. Or seven? I broke a wrist bone with the metal from my arm. The scream. His gun in my hand.
The rest is a blur. A shot ripped through my thigh.
I used a body as a shield. Gunpowder. I threw an empty pistol at one of their faces, crushed a jaw with my prosthesis.
Someone had a knife and plunged it into my shoulder more than once.
A taste of blood lingered in my mouth, I don’t know if it was mine or someone else’s.
Now, silence.
My phone shouldn’t be this heavy. I lean against one of the warehouse columns riddled with bullet holes. Is the oxygen I’m breathing actually reaching my lungs? It doesn’t feel like it. I pull in air but don’t feel them fill. It leaks out of me.
The gun I took from one of them falls to the floor. I can’t hold it. It’s too heavy. My vision dims and returns.
It dims and returns.
Blood loss, I guess. Dry mouth, thirst. Everything spinning. Usually means hemorrhage. Somewhere must be bleeding—there’s blood everywhere. Which fraction is mine?
There are bodies on the floor. Many. I won. I think.
It dims and returns.
A noise catches my attention. Metallic clang—the warehouse entrance gates opening. Cold air rushes in. Good. It was stuffy in here.
I try to focus. A silhouette appears in the doorway, walking. Tall, thin. Dressed in black—an overcoat. He has a gun in his hand.
Alexei.
My vision is failing, but I see movement near a stack of boxes. One of the men. He’s still alive. His hand drags across the floor, reaching for the pistol that fell inches away.
Alexei doesn’t need my warning.
He turns his face. I don’t know how much time passes—not long. He watches the man drag himself with nothing but coldness. He raises his gun the instant the man’s hand finds the pistol on the floor.
As if it were nothing, Alexei shoots.
Absolute control amidst my chaos.
Now am I hallucinating? Me, who never truly associated violence with Alexei. Only danger. They’re not so different. His clean, elegant hands hold the gun with beautiful ease. The gun that molds to him. And he soils his fancy shoes in the river of blood.
Even with a hemorrhage, I think: was he always this hot? He just executed a man in cold blood to save me. Or to save himself. I don’t know. Would his brother’s men have killed him?
Fuck it. His coolness feels good. It’s too hot in here.
He approaches. I don’t know when I slid down this column to be on the floor now, but he kneels down too. I see his face out of focus, but it’s unquestionably him. Tense, rigid, but him.
“Griffin,” he says. His voice floats, bringing me back. I can’t feel one leg. I try to peek why.
Too much blood. Oh—I remember—a bullet in my thigh. That must be it.
“Look at me,” he says. I feel his hand hold my face, preventing my head from lolling on its own. I look at him. The only thing without red stains here. “Where were you hit?”
I can barely move and still gather strength to touch his face too. Just to make sure he’s real. To stain the eagerness of his skin crimson.
I lean forward. Honestly, I have no idea why. I just kiss him.
He doesn’t even let me taste him. He touches my chest and pushes me back against the column.
“Kissing me won’t stop your bleeding,” he says, and his breath brushes my skin.
I watch him take off his overcoat. Expensive overcoat. Must be cashmere.
I can still smile. More or less.
“Why are you taking off your clothes for me...?” I say. I must really be delirious. My voice is hoarse, strained.
He ignores me. He shoves his hands into the silk lining of the overcoat, bites and pulls. Rips off a piece with a yank. He dropped the gun at some point.
“...What are you...”
He rests a hand on my good shoulder. “This is going to hurt.”
Before I realize it, his fingers are where the knife went in. I hadn’t noticed how ugly the cut was.
I think he’s just going to apply pressure, but no. The warning of pain is useless.
He shoves a finger inside the cut. I feel him press in a sudden burst—a wave that radiates to every nerve in my body, because that fucking stab wound alone can’t handle it.
My vision darkens again. I hear my own voice; a loud grunt that only escapes without my permission.
And he pushes the torn fabric inside. Once, twice.
There’s no more warehouse, no more bodies, no more anything. I only feel an agony that travels through my chest, ignites my throat, and explodes behind my eyes.
I look for something to grab. Anything. I squeeze his shoulder with all the strength I have left. I try to push him away.
He keeps pushing the fabric deeper into my flesh.
“Look at me, Griffin,” his voice commands, low and firm. “Don’t black out.”
I obey him. And what I see there anchors me. He’s concentrated, focused.
And as quickly as it started, the pressure stops.
The sharp, cutting pain transforms into a dull, throbbing ache.
Alexei keeps one hand over the wad of fabric sticking out of the stab wound, and with the other, he picks up the overcoat again. He bites it, tears off a larger piece—a long strip. He wraps it around my arm. He ties a knot over the wad of fabric, tightening it hard.
“Fuck,” I curse unintentionally. “Damn it...”
My whole arm throbs in agony, a deep, dull pain radiating from the hole he just stuffed with his rich man’s overcoat.
He doesn’t give me time to catch my breath. His hand, now entirely stained with my blood, slides down my leg. My pants are torn where the bullet entered.
I flinch by instinct. The same agony as before—he’s going to shove his fingers inside the hole. My entire body tenses.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he tears what’s left of the silk lining of the overcoat and creates a thick pad. He positions it over the wound on my thigh and leans over me, using his own body weight to apply firm pressure.
The pain is different. It’s a clean, constant pain that anchors me to reality. I grunt with clenched teeth, but it’s a sound of resistance, not pure agony.
“Stay awake, Griffin,” he commands. He’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the wound, on the blood that slowly begins to stain the makeshift dressing. “Talk to me. What’s your name?”
“Go to hell...”
A quick smile crosses his lips. “Good. You’re still you.” He increases the pressure. “Keep talking.”
“Do you want me to... recite the fucking alphabet?”
He doesn’t laugh. The pressure on my leg increases. Another wave of pain makes me see stars.
“Anything,” Alexei commands. “I don’t care. Just don’t black out.”
“Your brother’s guys... are terrible shots...”
“They hit you,” Alexei replies, not taking his eyes off the wound. “That makes them competent enough.”
I let out a sound that’s almost a laugh, but it turns into a groan of pain when he adjusts the pressure.
“Should have... aimed... for the head,” I murmur. My vision darkening at the edges again.
“No,” he says. “I’ve invested too much in you already.”
He maintains the pressure. I don’t know for how long. The bleeding seems to decrease. I think.
I feel the overcoat being tied tightly around my leg, holding the improvised pad in place. He slips an arm under mine.
“Don’t carry me,” I try to protest. He ignores it.
“Come on,” he says, and pulls me up.
He puts me on my feet, or at least tries to. I’m a dead weight against him, my injured leg giving way instantly. The world spins, a mix of pain and dizziness.
“Fuck,” I curse. My head falls onto his shoulder. That scent... it makes everything feel a little better.
He slings my good arm over his shoulders, holding my weight. “Try not to bleed on my shoe.”
And then, cold leather against my back.
I’m in the passenger seat. When did I get here?
The car door slams shut. Alexei is at the wheel. Wasn’t he just holding me? The dashboard light illuminates his face. The blood—my blood—makes a beautiful contrast with his skin.
He’s talking. Not to me. He called someone.
I close my eyes. His words are distant, the car is moving. My thigh burns. An ugly sound, a moan, escapes my throat.
Alexei looks at me. Wasn’t he on a call?
“Griffin.” I hear him speak. “Stay with me.”
I try to answer, to tell him to go fuck himself, but my tongue feels like a useless piece of meat in my mouth. I think I say he’s handsome. Or maybe I just thought it.
He doesn’t answer. He just speeds up.
I wake up to a dull ache throbbing all over my body.
I don’t know where I am. But it’s clean. I also feel clean. There’s the scent of cleaning products, freshly washed sheets, expensive things. The kind of thing Alexei would choose to shelter a wounded animal. Which is to say: me.