Chapter 5 Griffin Colson
~ Griffin Colson ~
I CAN’T GET THAT BOOKSTORE out of my head.
Well, not really the bookstore, but the woman who walked into it.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in a sparse, dimly lit motel room, rolling a bullet between my fingers like a worry stone.
The memory of her, her laugh, the way she lights up the room, is burned in the back of my mind like an afterimage.
It’s dangerous to linger on her. It’s dangerous to want her.
I scowl and pocket the round, standing abruptly.
Focus, Griffin. I have contracts piling up; loose ends that need cutting before they tangle around me too tightly.
But as I check the clip in my pistol, there’s a gnawing itch.
What if? What if I walked into that shop again and she’s there?
What if I let myself have this one damn thing?
My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt at how soft that sounds.
Survival doesn’t come with luxuries like ‘what if?’ Not for men like me.
I decide to walk around back. My footsteps are soundless in the dark alley. My eyes adjust to the lack of light and hair prickles the back of my neck. Time spent operating in deadly situations has taught me to trust that instinct, that feeling. Something is definitely wrong here.
I glance around and a flash of color catches my attention. That’s when I see it, torn fabric in the corner by the dumpster, a pair of flip-flops and a hair clip. I don’t have to get closer to tell there’s a pair of ripped women’s underwear. I freeze solid and my stomach drops.
The fire escape ladder hangs low enough—I jump, catching the bottom rung.
I hoist myself up to the platform, barely making a sound.
My knife is in my hand before I'm completely balanced.
The window to the loft apartment is closed but not locked.
I pry gently at the wood, nudging it open.
Then I smell it, the copper scent of blood, mixed with tea and incense.
Kicking into survival mode, adrenaline floods my veins. My shoulders tense and I strengthen the grip on my knife. I slip inside, taking in the details of the living area, the kitchen beyond it.
A sound, so soft I almost miss it, stops me dead in my tracks. A stifled sob. My boots are quiet and my body is wound tight, every sense razor-sharp. I stalk to the bathroom door, blade angled low. The shower’s running, steam curls through the air. Another muffled sob. And then I see her.
Her knees are pulled up and there’s blood on the tile behind her.
She’s as far in the corner as you can go.
Her skin is scrubbed raw. She’s covered in mottled bruises—handprints on her wrists, upper arms, her thighs and hips.
She lifts her head. My knife clatters to the floor and I don’t realize I’ve dropped it.
This is her store.
This is her loft.
This is her.
My hands are shaking with something so much deadlier than rage; guilt.
Guilt so thick it chokes because I know better.
I know what men like me drag behind them when they walk into places that don’t belong in their world.
And here she is, broken over my shadow without knowing why she bled for it in the first place.
Alexei fucking Sokolov. I should have caught the scumbag months ago.
I doubt he did this directly but I bet he’s involved. I don’t know how I know it but I do.
“Jesus Christ.”
My voice cracks in a way that shouldn’t exist for me.
I cross the distance fast, too fast, stopping before I touch her because fuck if I trust myself not to make things worse.
I sink down to my knees on the floor next to her, reaching up to turn off the burning faucet.
The air is heavy between us, holding all the things neither one of us are ready to say.
She shrinks further into the corner, if that’s possible.
And of course she does. A strange man she met yesterday barged into her bathroom after she was assaulted.
She squeezes her eyes shut like she thinks I’m going to hurt her too.
That she would ever think that, feels like a blow to the sternum.
Every bruise, every mark on her body is a fucking indictment.
A sign of my failure before I ever knew it was mine to claim.
I’m braced against the shower wall, knowing I’ll crumble without it.
“Not gonna touch you,” I grate out, each word measured carefully. My tone is laced with fury at myself for not being here sooner. “But I need you to listen to me. Do you know who did this?” A dark promise that every fiber in me is waiting to fulfill.
She shakes her head. I rake my hands down my face.
I can’t tell if she’s telling the truth or if she’s lying because she’s scared.
I hope she’s not protecting the son-of-a-bitch that did this.
If this is domestic, that could complicate things.
It takes everything I have to shove the bitter hatred that’s boiling inside me back down.
It’s the last thing she needs right now.
“I can help. If you let me.”
She shakes her head again. I can tell from the way she holds herself tighter, she doesn’t want me here. Hell, I’d be more concerned if she did.
“I don’t know you,” she murmurs.
Fair enough. She is smart not to trust me. My fingers flex at my side. I need to destroy whoever did this. I need their blood on my hands more than I need air in my lungs.
“No,” I admit quietly, my voice gravelly with emotion. “You don’t.”
I weigh my next words. I don’t want to scare her anymore than she already is. But I do want to find a way to reach through the haze of shock gripping her and bring her back a little.
“I know men like them. And I know how to make sure they never come back.” I sigh. “Not askin’ for trust yet. But tell me where to stand so I can watch your back while you remember how to breathe.” There’s no demand in my tone, just an offer laid bare at her feet.
“Why?” she asks quietly.
How the hell do I answer that without sounding like a predator trying to sweet talk his way past her defenses?
“No reason,” I grit out. “Not a damn one.” Lie.
The truth is much worse. I can’t tell her I want to give her a reason to smile again.
That when she laughs it’s like sunshine breaking through clouds I’ve been under for years.
And those bastards stole that from me before I knew what to call it.
“Just figured somebody oughta stand between you and the storm.”
She peers up at me with that same curious expression she gave me in the bookstore. Like she can’t tell if I’m real or not. Then, suddenly, her eyes widen and her face turns red. She shifts to hide the important parts. “M-maybe we could continue this conversation in the living room?” she stutters.
We’re both suddenly very aware of the fact that she’s naked. My eyes shoot straight to the ceiling and I retrieve my knife, holstering it. I stand up and back away, giving her space.
“Yeah,” I rasp, my face growing warmer. “Livin’ room. Good call.” I snag a towel from the rack and toss it over the shower door so she can reach it. I leave, stopping long enough to add. “Yell if you need help.” I pause. “Or y’know, if I need to shoot anybody.”
The door clicks shut behind me.
A few minutes later, it opens again. I’m halfway out of my chair before I sit back down, drumming a nervous rhythm on my knee. Don’t crowd her. Don’t fuck this up.
She steps into the living room and every muscle in my body locks up. Her robe does nothing to hide her generous silhouette or the fact that she’s moving a little too carefully. One misstep and she’ll shatter. I have to suppress the rage that threatens to break free again at the reminder.
“Gotta first-aid kit?” It comes out thicker than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. “Those wings need cleanin’ before they scar.” I don’t know how to fix this and I’m not sure if she will let me try.
Without saying a word, she walks back into the bathroom, returning with a little red box. She shuffles her feet, keeping her head down. She doesn’t want me near her. But something in her outweighs her fear. I’m assuming it’s the precious ink on her back.
I go over to the couch after she sits down and turns around.
She lowers her robe. She’s not only scratched in places, but gouged.
Torn where rough brick and rougher hands held her against the wall.
Seeing the damage up close is harder than I thought it’d be.
A knot forms in my throat and my chest aches in a way I didn’t know I was capable of.
The wings on her back are a work of fucking art. The detail is exquisite; delicate and fierce, like the woman they grace. But right now they are raw and ragged, torn by some sick fuck who doesn’t know he’s dead already.
I pick up the box from the coffee table.
Taking out the tweezers, I dig around for things that were left behind in some of the deeper grooves, cleaning away dirt and debris the shower couldn’t reach with a precision that borders on tender.
I have to clear my throat twice to get it working again.
My fingers are steady in a way that betrays years of stitching myself up in motel bathrooms with nothing but whiskey and a switchblade.
“Gonna sting.”
I dab the antiseptic soaked gauze along a shredded feather edge.
My touch is deliberately light. She sucks in air through her teeth.
Everything in me wants to demand answers.
Who did this to you? Why did they think they could take what wasn’t theirs?
But questions can wait. For now I focus on the task at hand.
“Breathe.” I remind her when her shoulders tense.