Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Miranda
Zero personality?
Did this jerk really just say that?
He’s standing on top of my car. My Honda.
My poor, beat-up Honda that’s barely holding together as it is, and now he’s balanced on the roof like it’s a stage.
The parking lot lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and those ridiculous cheekbones.
His dark hair falls across his forehead, and his amber eyes are practically glowing with intensity.
My stomach does this annoying flutter thing that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
This is not the time to notice how attractive he is. This is the time to be furious that he just dented my car.
I should have asked security to walk me out instead of marching into this parking lot alone like an idiot. Now I’m ambushed and my car is wrecked.
The man on the ground staggers to his feet, blood still streaming from his nose. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and snarls up at Grayson, “Who the hell are you?”
Then he pulls out a knife.
I immediately tense up.
Grayson jumps down from my car with a metallic groan that makes me wince. The roof dents further under the impact of his landing. The repair costs flash through my mind, and I could cry.
“Let her go,” Grayson says, his voice low and threatening in a way that makes my skin prickle. “Now.”
The men holding my arms hesitate. I feel their grip loosen slightly.
Then Scarface nods at his buddies. “Get him.”
They release me, and I stumble, catching myself against the side of my car. All three men rush at Grayson at once.
He moves, and my breath catches.
He’s like a blur. How is he this fast? My eyes can barely keep up. A knot forms in my stomach.
The first man swings his bat, and Grayson ducks under it, driving his fist into the guy’s stomach. The man goes flying backwards, hitting the door of a car before crumpling to the ground. I sink to my knees, eyes wide, watching this unfold like something out of an action movie.
The second one comes at him from the left, and Grayson spins, his elbow catching the thug across the jaw with a crack that echoes through the parking lot. The man falls down on the spot, unmoving.
I stay there, slumped on the ground, frozen.
Grayson is strong. Too strong. The way he moves, the way he fights, it’s not normal. These are big men, trained in violence, and he’s tossing them around like they weigh nothing. His body is all coiled power and fluid motion, every muscle working in perfect harmony.
Despite the fear, I feel something else: a flare of heat at seeing him fight.
Scarface lunges with the knife.
Grayson tries to dodge, but the blade catches him across the ribs. He grunts, stumbling back.
“No!” The word tears out of me before I can stop it.
Grayson presses a hand to his side where blood is already seeping through his shirt. Scarface circles him. “You think this is over? Come at me, pretty boy.”
Grayson is clutching his injured side, but his eyes are on the man.
I don’t think. I just move. Jumping to my feet, I grab the crowbar one of them dropped. Rushing forward, I swing it at Scarface’s knees. He howls, collapsing. I hear a car door slam, and five men come rushing toward us. My stomach sinks.
I don’t have time to react before Grayson grabs me by the arm and shoves me behind him.
“Stay back,” he growls.
The roughness in his voice does something to my insides that I’m too terrified to examine.
He tears through the men like they’re nothing, all fists and fury despite the blood spreading across his shirt. When the last man hits the ground, Grayson sways.
I run toward him, catching his arm. “You’re hurt.” I can hear footsteps and shouting. “We have to get away from here.”
I see Grayson’s eyes looking up toward the corners of the parking lot, and I realize what he’s searching for.
“There are no surveillance cameras here,” I hiss at him. “Now come on before you bleed to death!”
“I’m fine.” But his voice is strained.
“Yeah, you’re fucking dandy.” I hook his arm over my shoulders, trying to ignore the solid warmth of him pressed against my side. “Now come on. We’re going inside.”
“Miranda, I don’t need—”
“Shut up and walk.”
He does, leaning heavily on me. His body heat seeps through my clothes, unnaturally warm. We make it back through the ER entrance, and when a few concerned nurses look over, I wave them off and steer him toward an empty exam room, the same one I stitched him up in last time.
“This is becoming a habit,” I mutter, helping him onto the exam table.
“At least you’re consistent.” He winces as he peels his shirt off.
I should look away. I should focus on getting supplies ready.
I don’t.
The fabric is soaked with blood, but that’s not what catches my attention. It’s the lean, defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the V of his hips disappearing into his jeans. His skin is smooth and golden in the harsh fluorescent light.
My mouth goes dry.
I bite my tongue to force myself to return to reality. I should be scared of him, not admiring his body. I should also remind myself that he’s eighty percent jerk.
I grab supplies, my hands moving on autopilot. The wound is a deep slash across his ribs, still bleeding freely. It will require stitches. Maybe even surgery if it’s deep enough.
“This looks bad,” I say, cleaning around the edges. My fingers brush his skin, and he tenses.
“It’s not that bad.”
“You were just stabbed. It’s bad.” I work quickly, disinfecting the wound. I’m acutely aware of how close I’m standing to him, how his eyes are fixed on my face.
“Well, I have a pretty nurse looking after me, so I should be fine.”
I glance up at him, wondering how he can joke at a time like this, but I return my attention to the wound, pressing gauze against it to stem the bleeding. Except the bleeding has already slowed. Too much. Too fast.
It was the same for his last injury, only that was his femoral artery. It was still bleeding, but it wasn’t as heavy as it could and should have been. I hadn’t paid too much attention, but now after seeing him fight—
My hands still.
I watch as the edges of the wound begin to knit together. Not completely. Not instantly. But enough that I can see it happening. Skin pulling toward skin. The flesh mending itself right in front of me, faster than anything I’ve ever seen.
What the hell? How is this possible?
My grandmother used to tell stories about men who weren’t men at all but beasts wearing human skin. My mother said she was delusional.
Maybe she wasn’t.
I look up slowly and find Grayson watching me. There’s wariness in his eyes now. Caution.
I know he’s waiting for me to ask. To demand an explanation. To freak out.
I press my lips together to hold in the questions at the tip of my tongue. I don’t know how this is humanly possible. It shouldn’t be.
However, I learned a long time ago to keep my observations to myself.
And right now, some quiet, self-preserving part of me understands that asking means knowing.
And knowing means I have to do something with it, report it, explain it, act on it.
I am barely holding my life together as it is.
I don’t have room for an answer like this.
Instead, I finish cleaning the wound in silence and apply a bandage even though he probably doesn’t need one. Then I turn away to put the supplies back, my mind racing.
His hand catches my wrist.
“So you’re not even going to ask?” His voice is quiet. Almost disappointed.
I know what he’s referring to. The wound that’s healing way too fast. The strength he showed in that fight. The speed.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, firm and steady. His thumb rests against my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is beating.
I pull my hand back and meet his eyes. “Yeah. Are you going to pay for the damage to the roof of my car?”
He stares at me. Just stares.
Then he bursts into laughter.
The sound fills the small exam room, rich and genuine. His whole face transforms when he laughs, the hard edges softening. He looks younger. Almost carefree. And devastatingly attractive.
My traitorous stomach flips.
I smack his hand away, needing to break whatever spell this is. “I’m serious. You’re no lightweight. You put a serious dent in it.”
“I saved you from those thugs,” he says, still grinning.
“Fine. Thank you for that.” I cross my arms, putting a barrier between us. “But I need to drive to and from work in that car. Unless you’re offering to drive me...”
I see the glint in his eyes at that. His mouth curves into a smile that makes heat pool low in my belly. “Well, if you insist—”
“I don’t insist.” I cut him off quickly, hating how breathless my voice sounds. “If you damaged my car because you wanted to bounce on it in your attempt to play hero, you’re paying for the repairs.”
“You’re the most ungrateful woman I’ve ever met,” Grayson mutters.
“Yes, yes. I’m annoying. I’m ungrateful.” I throw his own words back at him. “I’m also broke, and if that car is wrecked because of your stunt, I’ll become homeless as well because I can’t commute.”
Something flickers across his face. Guilt, maybe. But he’s stubborn, jaw set in a way that draws my attention to the strong line of his throat. “Men don’t like women who’re ungrateful.”
I bare my teeth at him in a smile. “I’ll get over it, I’m sure.”
He glowers at me. “I’ll see if there’s any damage,” he says finally.
He studies me for a long moment. I can feel him trying to figure me out. Trying to understand why I’m not asking the obvious questions.
The weight of his gaze makes my skin feel too tight.
He opens his mouth, and I slap my hand over it, giving him a sharp look.
His eyes widen above my palm. His lips are soft against my skin, and I snatch my hand back like I’ve been burned.
“I don’t want to know your secrets,” I say firmly, trying to ignore the tingling in my palm. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see anything weird, so let’s keep it that way.”