Chapter 8 Seriphina Joseph #2
There’s no telling how long it will take him to unravel an entire syndicate.
And chances are, by the time it is safe enough to return to my store, I will be bankrupt and have to foreclose.
Moonglow is all I have and all I’ve ever wanted.
I won’t have a job or a place to live anymore.
He’s asking me to trust him with more than my life.
He’s asking me to trust him with ‘everything.’ I cover my face with my hands and lean forward with my elbows on my knees.
He rubs his hand over his face and rises abruptly, prowling over to the fireplace. “You aren’t losin’ your damn store.”
“How? I can’t pay the mortgage if I don’t have customers, Griffin.
And I can’t have customers if I’m not there to open it.
How long do you think this is going to take?
” My words come out more snide than I intend.
I’m emotional and he’s the only punching bag available.
The idea of this single man taking on a whole group of criminals is ludicrous. This isn't a fucking action movie.
He steps closer, towering over me. “You think this is my first time puttin’ down a rabid dog like Sokolov?
I don’t need months, Wildflower. I need a week.
” His eyes hold mine, cold as steel and twice as sharp, “But if you’d rather roll the dice on losin’ everything while tryin’ to fight Russian mobsters with crystals and tea leaves? Be my fuckin’ guest.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket, taps the screen, and tosses it onto the couch beside me.
It’s open to a banking app showing a wire transfer notification, fifteen thousand dollars, sent from GC Holdings, LLC to—holy shit, that’s my account number.
“Mortgage paid, electric paid. Whatever else you need, it's handled.”
I stand up from the couch in a flash. “What the fuck? Griffin! How did you get my bank account information? You can’t do that! I’m not taking your money.” I cross my arms over my chest and lift my chin.
His eyes narrow in the dim light, irises like iron. “That money? Consider it an investment in keepin’ you safe. I can’t be in two places at once and as long as you’re here, I know you’re outta the crossfire. So I’m buyin’ myself some peace of mind.”
“So what? You gave me fifteen thousand dollars so I’ll stay here while you run around risking your life?
A fight you don’t have to get involved in?
I don’t fucking understand you! Just when I think I get close to figuring you out, you do something equally or more insane than the last thing!
” I want to fight him on staying here. But I don’t have anywhere to go that won’t put someone I care about in danger.
His fingers thread into his hair, tugging at the roots. “You want an explanation?” His voice is rough, stripped raw. “Fine! I don’t do this shit, any of this shit, for anyone. But you?” He shakes his head like he’s afraid he might be going crazy. “I couldn’t walk away if I tried.”
My head is reeling. Nothing makes sense. Nothing in my life is okay anymore. Nothing I do right now fucking matters anyway. And he hands me a loaded statement wrapped in barbed wire.
He scrubs his hand over his face again, waging some kind of internal battle. “Look,” he mutters, “I don’t expect it to make sense right now. Trust me enough to let me deal with this. And I’ll get you back to your store.” He sighs. “And for fuck’s sake, stay put.”
“Alright.” I concede because what choice do I have? He’s only given me the illusion of a choice anyway. I sit back down on the couch, forgetting about my back. I suck in air between my teeth and tense up.
He takes a step toward me but stops himself, shoving his hands into his pockets “You need your bandages changed.”
I squint at him. He’s like some kind of alien from a foreign planet.
And I can’t decide if I want to jump in his spaceship and fly off with him or run away screaming.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t figure out what his motivation is.
No one is this self-sacrificing. I fight the nagging feeling that I’m missing something important.
“Get up. Couch is too hard. Gotta be uncomfortable as hell.” He heads down the hallway without waiting for me, calling over his shoulder. “Go lay down, I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
Sighing, I get up and follow him. I head into the room with an open door.
There’s a king-sized bed against the far wall, with simple blankets, a small nightstand, and a dresser.
Two doors line the far wall. One leads to a walk-in closet.
The other opens into an ensuite bathroom with an oversized bathtub, separate shower, and double sinks.
I take my cardigan off and crawl onto the bed, lying down on my stomach.
He appears with a large first-aid kit in hand and a bottle of water. He sucks in a breath when he peels back the bandages. His touch is deliberate, methodical, but impossibly gentle, cleaning each scrape with antiseptic.
“Hate that this happened,” he mutters.
The warmth of his fingers trace along my injured skin. He’s careful not to press where it hurts, taping fresh gauze in place with a precision that speaks of too much experience patching up wounds. He exhales slowly and leans back.
“Done.” He doesn’t move away though. He continues to study my back, like he’s committing every bruise and cut to memory. Then he snaps the first-aid kit shut and stands, taking a step towards the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
I get up from the bed and turn out the light.
Without bothering to change my clothes, I crawl back onto the soft as hell mattress.
I feel relaxed, remembering the way his fingers felt gliding over my skin.
I force it out of my head along with every other fucked up thing in my life right now.
Instead, I concentrate on my current book, imagining the story.
Right when I think there’s no possibility I’ll fall asleep in a bed that smells so much like him, I do.