Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Grayson
The porch is cold enough that my breath fogs in the air.
I don’t mind. The cold has never bothered me the way it bothers humans.
My wolf runs hot, and right now it’s running hotter than usual, pressing against the inside of my skin like it wants out.
It’s been like this for an hour. Two, maybe.
I stopped keeping track somewhere around the time I finished my second beer.
I turn the bottle in my hands until the label comes loose at one corner. I keep pulling at it mindlessly, needing something for my hands to do while my head runs through the same loop it’s been running for two hours.
My wolf wants to run. That’s all. It wants to shed everything human about me and drive itself into the woods until there’s nothing left but muscle and wind and dirt.
How long have I known Miranda?
Maybe a few months now? Two months? Three?
I don’t know.
It feels like she’s been in my life forever. As if every part of me has had her presence etched into it all along.
I won’t be able to find a job here. Maybe if I leave the city, maybe in another state.
I’m going to lose her. I look numbly across the garden.
This is what I wanted. The bond hasn’t had time to cement, hasn’t had time to form any sort of concrete connection…so why does it feel like my heart is being ripped out of my chest?
It’s been hours since our conversation, and she’s now asleep in my bed, Ethan snuggled by her side. And I’ve been out here, trying to convince myself to—
I tilt my head back, staring at the sky. Good. This is for the best. The Accord will never let me be with her. I can set her up in a good place, make sure she’s financially taken care of. Even if she doesn’t want to work, she won’t have to. I can…
My thoughts trail off like they’ve been doing this whole evening.
I take a long pull of the beer and set it on the railing.
Somewhere behind me, the house shifts. I hear a creak on the kitchen floorboard, the soft drag of feet that don’t lift all the way. I’m through the back door before the sound finishes, moving quietly so I don’t startle her.
Miranda stands in the middle of the kitchen in my shirt and the sweatpants that are three sizes too large for her, held up at the waist with a white-knuckled grip. Her hair is loose, tangled from sleep. She’s trying to pull open the fridge door.
“It has a child lock,” I murmur, and she lets out a small squeak, stumbling backward. I catch her before she can hit the island counter. Her waist is so small. Everything about her is small and delicate. And thin. She’s so thin, as if she doesn’t eat enough.
Her eyes are wide as she turns. I try not to show the effect she’s having on me and steady her. “Did you need something?”
“Water,” she mutters, her eyes darting to the side. Her stomach chooses that moment to call out her lie, and I hide my small smile.
“You want the stew.”
“I just told you—”
“Sit down, Miranda.” I pull her gently to one of the stools, and picking her up, I deposit her on it.
Taking the stew from the fridge, I heat it on the stove.
The kitchen is silent apart from the sounds of our breathing and the soft spluttering of the boiling stew.
Miranda is a few feet from me, and her scent is so sweet, so comforting that it makes me wonder why I couldn’t tell before that she was mine.
I put the bowl before her, and when she takes the spoon, I can see that her grip on it is unsteady. After watching her struggle for a few seconds, I reach over and take it from her.
“I can feed myself,” she protests, reaching for the bowl, but I simply pull a stool in front of her and sit down.
“You can.” I fill the spoon and hold it out.
“Grayson, I’m not a child.” Her cheeks are a bright red.
“Far from it.” I wait. When she doesn’t move, I bring the spoon to her lips. She makes a sound of pure affront but opens her mouth because her body has more sense than her pride does right now.
I feed her three more spoonfuls before she snatches the spoon back. I let her have it. She eats the rest herself, jaw set, pointedly not looking at me. Her hand is still unsteady.
“So,” I ask when the bowl is nearly empty, “what does a free woman do next?”
She stills. “I’m not free. I still owe you.”
“No. You don’t.”
“The money—”
“Was never a debt.” I hold her gaze. “I was always going to pay it off, Miranda.” She opens her mouth, but I keep going. “Whether you liked it or not.”
She stares at me. The kitchen is quiet. Her scent reaches me across the small distance between us, warm and clean with a hint of sweetness underneath that makes the animal in me want to press closer and breathe deeper.
I look down at the bowl, trying to control my emotions.
“Once you’ve recovered, I’ll set you up wherever you want to go.
I have properties in several states, any of them yours.
I’ll transfer the deed, full ownership, no conditions attached.
And I’ll establish an account that will make sure you never have to think about money again.
You can work if you want. You don’t have to. Either way—”
Her hand closes around my wrist.
My wolf lunges so hard against my ribs that I lose my breath.
Everything in me goes absolutely still. Her fingers are cool, her grip light, but I feel every point of contact like a brand against my skin.
My pulse kicks hard beneath her hand. The hunger that moves through me is a living thing, and I am abruptly, vividly aware of exactly how close she is sitting, of the loose fall of her hair, of the fact that she’s wearing my shirt and nothing else is between that fabric and her skin.
I remember the taste of her mouth. I want it again with an urgency that has nothing to do with reason.
“Grayson.”
I hear her from a distance.
“What are you talking about?” Her brows are pulled together. “Grayson. What are you talking about?”
I pull myself back, grounding myself in reality. “I’ll make sure you’re financially stable. For life. I’ll give you a clean start, somewhere new, completely on your own terms.”
She releases my wrist.
My wolf registers the loss immediately and makes its feelings on the matter both clear and uncharitable. I ignore it.
Miranda is quiet for a moment, her eyes moving across my face, a tension in her eyes. “Why do you think you have to do anything for me?”
Because you are mine. The words sit at the base of my throat, and I press them down.
“Can’t I do it because I want to?” I ask finally.
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world.” She lifts her chin, eyes flashing. “I can’t take this from you, Grayson. Not from you.”
I reach out and take her jaw in my hand, gently, tilting her face up. “I don’t remember giving you a choice. This is a done deal.”
Two weeks ago, she would have said something nasty to me, but tonight she’s just looking down at her bowl. “I won’t take it. I won’t take your money or anything. I don’t want it.”
“I need you to take it, Miranda.” My hand winds around her nape, and when I nudge her head up to look at me, I let her see the vulnerability in my eyes.
“I need you to do this for me. Take everything I’m giving you.
If you leave—When you leave, we might not see each other anymore.
I want to know that you have nothing to worry about. I’m doing this for me and Ethan.”
“Why?” The word is a bare whisper.
I want to tell her the truth. I want to make her stay. But we have no future. We never did.
“You’ve been good to me and my son. You lost your job because you tried to protect Ethan. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”
She searches my gaze as if trying to figure out if I’m telling her the truth.
“Just that?” she asks slowly, not entirely convinced.
“Just that” is my calm response.
She pulls away from me, her jaw tight. “I didn’t protect Ethan’s identity because I wanted money from you.”
“Miranda—” I begin, frowning.
“No!” Her tone is harsh. “Don’t bring Ethan into this. Don’t you dare put a value on my relationship with your son. He is—” She wets her lips, her eyes glistening with tears. “He’s important to me. I won’t have you taint what I feel for that child by—by—”
She can’t finish that sentence, and once again I’m left floundering. “I’m not. I’m just trying to say—”
I cut myself off when she wipes her eyes furiously.
“I’ll pay off what I owe you. I don’t take handouts, Grayson.
Not from anybody. I’ll talk to Coach Ramirez and get my medical team position back.
I’ll use that money to get back on my feet, and I will pay you back the money. But I won’t take a cent from you.”
I open my mouth, but she shakes her head. “I won’t argue about this.”
She’s clearly been thinking about taking back her position. It does make sense. She needs that money, especially if she doesn’t want to take anything from me.
Miranda slides off the stool and carries the bowl to the sink. I watch her do it: the slow, careful way she moves because her ribs are still tender, the white-knuckled grip she keeps on the edge of the counter afterward to steady herself. She doesn’t ask for help, nor does she look at me.
Frustration rears its head within me. I just offered her the world on a platter, and her damn pride won’t let her take it. My wolf is offended she doesn’t want us to support her. It’s also a little proud of that streak of stubbornness within her.
“I’m going to bed.”
Things between us are still awkward. The scales have been tipped, and our relationship is trying to adjust itself to the new balance. As she heads toward the stairs, I follow after her. The walk upstairs is slow. Her injuries may be healed, but she still needs time.
Ethan is a small mound in the center of my bed, one arm thrown over ChuChu’s head, mouth open, dead to the world. Miranda stops in the doorway and looks at him. Her expression grows soft, and my heart skips a beat.
She crosses to the bed and lowers herself carefully onto the edge, settling on her side, facing him. I watch her reach out and brush the hair off his forehead.