Chapter Twelve Grayson
Chapter Twelve
Grayson
The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was her warmth still pressed against me.
Violet.
Her head rested on my chest, her hair a dark tangle of soft, sweet-smelling strands spilling over me. It felt really fucking good. I lay still and listened to the sound of her even, deep breathing, slow against my throat.
My arm felt heavy, tingling, as it had fallen asleep, but I wasn’t about to move it and risk disturbing her.
I’d woken up in the middle of the night and had a difficult time falling back asleep. I’d sensed she’d been awake for some time, too, but neither one of us spoke, and after a while, she finally dozed off again.
Somewhere in the dark, when the silence and shadows grew too heavy, we’d both found solace in each other’s arms. And I never wanted to let go.
Now dawn filtered through the blinds in thin slices, painting the room in shades of gold and pink. She stirred, lashes fluttering before her eyes opened. For a moment she looked soft, almost peaceful.
“You’re still here,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.
“Leaving was the last thing on my mind.”
She only nodded, slipping from my hold and sitting up with the blanket clutched around her. The absence of her weight felt sharper than it should have.
I sat up, rubbing the back of my neck and along my cheeks, shaking off the heaviness of sleep. I stared at her for moments while she gazed out her window, only slices of the outside world visible. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Her gaze flicked to mine, wary. For a second I thought she might let me in—just a crack, to reveal all the dark secrets she was too afraid to confess. But then she shook her head, retreating behind the wall she’d built so high around her.
But I was confident that in time, she’d grow to trust me.
We were silent as we dressed and headed into the kitchen. I sat at her tiny dining room table, forearms braced on the scarred wood, and watched as she made coffee. Her house was small, stripped of anything that made it feel lived in.
I’d noticed she kept a bag near the front door. I didn’t need to ask what it was for. I knew. If she needed to run . . .
There were other things I noticed, things like a box peeking out of her closet, one she probably kept pushed deep in the back, but hadn’t done it well enough this time. She wasn’t used to having anyone in her space, I concluded.
She came over and handed me a mug before sitting down across from me. She wrapped her hands around her cup, staring into the steam instead of at me, this heaviness filling the kitchen.
“Do you regret what we did last night?” She sure as hell hadn’t seemed like it when she came against my mouth, but this morning she seemed to be drawn into herself, and I didn’t want it to be because she felt off about it.
Violet glanced up at me with brows lifted, eyes slightly wide, and genuine surprise on her face. And then her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink, and I held in the possessive growl that was about to spill from my throat.
“God, no! I regret nothing,” she mumbled, then glanced back down to stare into her coffee mug. “I just . . .” She paused, exhaled, and continued: “I just don’t want you to play bodyguard.”
I took a sip of my coffee and leaned back in the chair before I answered. “You think that’s what this is?”
Her eyes met mine, and for a moment something unguarded flickered there. Something I almost believed was relief. Then it was gone, shuttered tight.
“You should get used to me being here,” I finally said, keeping my voice even. “Because I’m not leaving.”
Although she didn’t respond, and we finished our coffee in silence, the air was lighter, the quiet between us no longer suffocating but alive with something neither of us wanted to name.
I studied her across the table, the way her fingers curled tight around the mug like she could anchor herself with the heat. She was fragile in many aspects, and yet the strongest person I’d ever seen. She was an enigma to me, someone who opened up my thoughts and emotions so I . . . felt.
I stared at her wrists, where her shirt rode up. I saw very fine, light marks on her inner forearms, and knew those scars didn’t define us.
But we weren’t alone in it anymore.
Her eyes lifted and caught mine again. Brief. Fleeting. But in that flicker, I saw it—the same need I felt in myself. And everything in me twisted.
Because of things hidden in the darkness, we’d found each other. And now that I’d met Violet, now that she’d opened me up and carved my insides with a knife, branding me, what I felt for her was obsessive, possessive, and utterly dangerous.
I could admit that what I was doing bordered on psychotic. It was stalking, plain and simple. I had work waiting for me, files piled up, hours of research that needed to be done, but I was here—trailing Violet like a shadow.
From the first time I’d seen her in that coffee shop, something in me had shifted. She wasn’t just a witness or a lead in this case. She was a puzzle I couldn’t leave unsolved. Her haunted eyes, and the way she carried silence like armor, pulled at me and made me need to know more.
That was why I started following her, telling myself it was for her protection, but knowing deep down it was because I couldn’t stay away. It drove me closer, step by step, until I had to be in her life.
I lingered outside the coffee shop, watching her through the glass as she moved behind the counter. She smiled at customers, traded words with her coworker, but I could see the fatigue in the way her shoulders curved, the way her gaze scanned the room when she thought no one noticed.
She didn’t know I was here. She didn’t know I’d made it my job never to let her out of my sight. But she felt it. She felt my presence even though she couldn’t name it.
When she left, I followed. My pace matched hers, always far enough to blend into the background. Guilt pressed at the edges of my mind because she didn’t know I was watching her, but it burned away the moment I caught what she didn’t.
Two blocks down, a black SUV idled too long. The driver—a man with a shaved head—was focused on one thing. Violet. She didn’t notice. Or if she did, she was smart enough not to show her unease.
My pulse was fast and hard, adrenaline rushing through my veins until every protective instinct in me turned feral. My attention shifted from Violet to the SUV. It lingered, engine low, windows blacked out. I tracked it as it rolled past, committing every detail to memory—Ohio plates.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Schafer. He answered on the first ring, voice flat, sharp.
“Yeah?” he said in his cold, even tone.
I got right to the point. “Black SUV, Ohio plates. Following . . . a woman.” I kept Violet’s name and identity to myself.
I didn’t even reveal her information to the bureau, although I should have reported all the shit happening to her.
Since I knew it was connected, I kept my gaze locked on the disappearing vehicle, already having the plate number memorized.
“I need to know the registration. I want you to run it. Dig deep—federal databases, local chatter, whatever you’ve got access to.
I need to be certain what we’re dealing with here. ”
Schafer exhaled. “A woman?” I didn’t respond. “You know this isn’t what this whole thing is about,” he said as if scolding me like he was a parent. I ground my teeth but stayed silent. “This is against my personal protocol.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “We both know you don’t fucking care about protocol.” I heard Schafer typing. “Just don’t log it.” My voice was low, dangerous. “Get me what I need. Quietly.”
He was silent for a moment, the clatter of keys faint through the line. “I’ll see what I can turn up. But . . .” Schafer exhaled again, and I knew there was more. I should have hung up before he could say anything. “You’re getting too close. Remember why you’re there—”
I hung up before he could finish. I remembered. I just didn’t care anymore.
The SUV was gone, swallowed by traffic. Could I chalk this up to paranoia or possessiveness? No, my instincts were too fucking acute to play games of “what if.”
Whoever they were, they’d been focused on Violet. Watching her. Following her.
I didn’t let myself relax until I saw her safely back at home, the lights of her house glowing dim against the fog. Only then did I head for the lake, to the spot where the last body had been dumped.
I stood at the water’s edge, the mist curling low across the trail, rolling heavy over Sweetwater Lake. I drew a slow breath, the metallic tang filling my lungs, and felt the press of secrets crowding close.
This wasn’t just a crime scene. It was something older. The place carried weight, a history you could almost taste in the air. The stillness vibrated with it, buried deep in the soil so it tangled with the roots. It was a silence that didn’t feel empty, but alive.
I tried to picture the killer here, standing where I was, disposing of their victim. I worked my brain around it all, trying to fit the fragments and patterns together so it made fucking sense.
The bureau wanted facts. Evidence. Things that could be boxed, labeled, stacked. That was why they’d called me in, to give them my expert opinion and advice. But sometimes things didn’t fit neatly into files.
Whoever was behind this, they weren’t finished. And I knew Violet was involved. I just needed her to be honest and open and let me in to help.
That was why I was here.
My thoughts twisted sharply inside me, cutting through the steady mask I wore for everyone else. Everyone but Violet. I pulled up the memories of last night, how I’d tasted her, felt her tremble for me . . . tasted her orgasm on my tongue. I’d held her in the dark, and something had shifted then.
I’d told myself I was here to protect her because it was my job, but the truth couldn’t be buried any longer.
Duty had blurred into something salacious and real. And my obligation, my initial curiosity and obsession, was now something I’d never felt for another person before.
I didn’t want to just keep her safe. I wanted to make her mine.
I was supposed to be reviewing crime scene photos. Instead, I stared at my phone, rereading a four-word text I’d written an hour ago but never actually sent:
Need everything on Violet.
I deleted it.
She was becoming a blind spot. A dangerous one. I found myself waking at night to check my notes, but my mind wandered to her, overlooking a detail in the report that might have been key. The distraction was subtle, but it was there, and it could cost us both.
The investigation was stalling. Leads had dried up, and the team was frustrated. I was pulled aside by investigators and told, You’re too involved with that witness. It’s compromising the case. I denied it, but they knew.
One night I pushed for her background. “Tell me about before Sweetwater,” I said casually.
She shared a fragment, not knowing my urgency.
The shadows in the room seemed to lengthen as we talked, not oppressive but watchful, the night air carrying a faint, unfamiliar scent through the slightly opened window.
The case was closing in around her, the ritual murders escalating, but I was starting to withhold details from the team. Small things, like leads that pointed too closely to Violet’s past.
I told myself it was to earn her trust, to keep her talking, but the truth was I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else getting to her first.
The cult’s plan was in motion, but my resolve wavered.