Griffin Colson
I’M MAKING PANCAKES. My mood has only marginally improved.
I can’t stop thinking about how Seriph looked fleeing from me after I kissed her.
Her hair waving behind her as she scurried down the hallway.
I warned her not to get too close. My control was hanging by a thread.
I have no idea where we would have ended up if Jax hadn’t interrupted.
After what she went through, I have no right to put my hands on her.
I’m not surprised she fled. I fucked up in a big way.
No matter what I do with her it’s the wrong move.
I let my rage at Stepan get in the way of taking down Sokolov.
I could have had him in zip ties and on the ground with the rest of his men.
Instead, I hammered Stepan into the fucking ground.
I don’t do this. I don’t lose control. And the guilt from it is eating a hole in my stomach the size of Everest.
I didn’t bother with a shirt this morning, tossing it nearby and opting for sweatpants.
I’m rolling sausage around in the pan when a bunch of things clatter to the floor.
Seriph bends down to pick up her water bottle, phone, and e-reader.
I take in her loose, flowing tank top and lace trimmed shorts.
Clearing my throat, I look at the pan like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.
“Mornin’,” I mutter. I flip the pancake with more force than necessary and almost miss the pan. The tension from last night is thick and made worse by the domesticity of the moment.
“Good morning, I didn’t know you cook,” she says while looking closely at her phone screen for cracks. Her head is tilted away from me and there’s a faint blush on her cheeks.
“Occasional necessity,” I reply. Her proximity is like an electric current. “Coffee’s in the pot.” I grab two plates from the cabinet.
“Thanks.” She moves to the fridge and pours a glass of milk.
I scold myself, remembering she doesn’t drink coffee.
I make a mental note to find out what kind of tea she drinks.
Focusing on serving food feels safer than thinking about how she looks in those shorts, or the fact her tank top clings enough to make me curse the laws of physics.
But no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps turning to that kiss, the way she froze like a deer in the headlights, the way she ran.
I serve a couple of pancakes and some sausage to her first, sliding the plate in front of her.
Then I sit down across from her with my own breakfast. There’s only a table between us, but it feels like an entire football field.
No, an entire stadium. I keep my eyes on my food, she does the same.
I shove a forkful of pancake in my mouth.
Seriph moves her food around on her plate for a bit. “Listen, about last night...”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth. I set it down with a clink.
My fingers flex and I resist the urge to curl them into fists.
I press them flat against the table instead.
“Don’t.” My voice comes out quieter than intended.
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” My eyes flick up to hers, for a second, before dropping to my plate. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
She flinches. That was not the reaction I had hoped for. Fuck. How do I wipe that hurt expression off of her face? I’m doing this backwards. I never say the right thing when it comes to her. I push my plate away and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Look at me.”
“No, it’s okay. Really. I knew you were running on emotions and the adrenaline of whatever happened last night.
” She squares her shoulders and sits up a little straighter, refusing to look directly at me.
“I didn’t have any expectations from you and I still don’t.
I’m aware of what this isn’t. I have eyes. ” She takes a bite of her pancakes.
My eyes narrow, anger burning through me, at myself more than her. But the way she said it so matter-of-factly, hits me deep in some half-healed wound I didn’t know I had. My chest hovers closer to the table. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”
“What do you mean, what am I talking about?”
She’s acting like I’m the one that pulled away last night, like I am the one that didn’t want what happened. Is that what she thinks? That I don’t want her? She avoids my eyes again.
“Look me in the eyes and tell me you actually believe that bullshit you spewed about your damn expectations.”
She looks at me for the first time since walking into the kitchen.
Her gaze starts at my forearms and slowly makes its way up my biceps.
It’s like she’s caressing my tattoos with her eyes.
She makes it to my chest and then down my abs, before I clear my throat.
Did she drop her things when she came into the kitchen because I’m not wearing a shirt?
Despite my irritation, I can’t fight the slight twitch of my lips.
Her focus snaps to my face, her cheeks pink.
“Bullshit? For not sitting here like a damsel in distress waiting for you to sweep me off my feet? I don’t have expectations of you because I don’t expect you to want me.
I’m grateful for your help but I haven’t disillusioned myself into thinking this is something it isn’t. ”
She doesn’t expect me to want her? Is she blind?
I’ve been giving her space because of what happened to her but it’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to fucking do.
I’ve been fighting to keep my hands to myself every time I’ve been anywhere near her.
I stand up and move around the table so fast, she doesn’t have time to react.
I plant my hands on either side of her chair, caging her in as I lean down until my face is inches from hers.
“Then let me make this crystal fuckin’ clear.
” My voice is a low rumble. “You just went through hell. I didn’t want to push you into somethin’ you aren’t ready for.
” My eyes bore into hers. “Because I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you.
” I pull in a ragged breath, affected by the mere proximity of her.
“And that’s why I shouldn’t have kissed you. ”
Her breath falters and her eyes widen. I can practically see the thoughts racing through her head.
That fucking adorable crease in her brow is back, my fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and smooth it away.
She’s searching my face like I’m an anomaly, like there’s no possible way I could be telling her the truth.
The fact she doubts that I could want her is as exasperating as her believing I could regret the best thing that’s fucking happened to me in years. “Say somethin’.”
“You can’t.”
“Why the hell not?” The way she doubts herself makes the frustration inside me go white hot.
She’s so goddamn used to the bullshit people feed her, that she’d rather shut down than believe me. It should infuriate me, but it makes me more determined to break through the armor she’s built up. I reach out, my fingers lightly brushing her jawline.
“Because men like you don’t want women like me,” she answers timidly.
“Men like me?” Her words are like a punch to the gut. My voice is low and dangerous. “You mean broken mercenaries with blood on their hands?” I lean in closer, my lips brushing the curve of her ear. “Wildflower, if you think you’re too good for me—”
“No! No, that’s not what I meant, Griffin!
” She pushes her chair back, putting space between us.
“I mean men who look like they descended from Mount fucking Olympus, don’t want women who are shaped like me!
” She gestures at her body, like it’s somehow obvious why I shouldn’t want her.
Then stands and bolts toward the hallway.
Before she can escape, my hand snaps out and catches her wrist. I pull her toward me, yanking hard enough to spin her around. My other arm bands around her waist, holding her fully against me.
“You think I give a single fuck about what some magazine or Hollywood prick says is attractive?” My fingers dip into the curve of her hip.
“You’re all soft edges and fire.” My voice is hushed.
“You think I don’t ache for you? That I don’t lay awake at night imaginin’ how your body would feel under mine?
” I draw back and look into her eyes. “Fuck expectations.”
My mouth crashes down onto hers, rough and hungry. My lips move desperately, like without her I might drown. I push her against the wall and my hands slide up under her shirt. The feel of her skin against my palm ignites a fire in me that has me growing hard.
I don’t register her clawing at my chest. She shoves me as hard as she can and I let go. I pull out of her tank top and take two steps back, giving her space. My heart is pounding. Tears build in her eyes and she doesn’t seem to recognize her surroundings. The wall. Shit.
I don’t move closer but when I speak my voice is rough with regret. “You with me?”
She closes her eyes but doesn’t say anything. She can’t catch her breath. She’s fucking terrified. I step back further. She’s having a panic attack. Because my dumbass pushed her against a fucking wall. I know what happened to her and I did it anyway.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “Focus on breathin’.” I rub the back of my neck. “Fuck, Seriph. I should’ve known better. I’m sorry.”
I walk to the sink, gripping the counter with both hands.
My head drops forward, shoulders rigid. “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” I say quietly.
“But we’re doin’ this at your pace.” I grab my shirt from where it’s draped over a chair and tug it on.
I want to give her space, give her control.
There’s no frustration left in me, only quiet resolve. “Tell me what you need.”
She shakes her head, shrugging it off. She sits back down at the table. She doesn’t take a bite of her food. Seeing her like this and knowing it was my fault cuts deeper than anything the fuckers I hunt could do.