Chapter 15
CLEMENTINE
The deafening crash of thunder wakes me.
I’ve never been able to sleep through a storm. Whenever one crops up, I think about how I should have moved far away from rain and lightning and bad memories.
But, no, I’m stuck in northern Georgia, where thunderstorms are a staple in the spring. This night is worse than normal, when I’m just trying to fall asleep and forget the growing ache in my side.
Whatever magical prodding Violetta did earlier, I wouldn’t say it made the wound worse, but it’s certainly harder to ignore.
Still, despite her lack of tact, I appreciate knowing the issue isn’t poison.
After Violetta left—carrying her glass of wine as if the stemware were a to-go cup—I called Mor to update her, hoping carving out what the cause isn’t might help us determine what it is.
Then I asked Griffith if we should be worried about Violetta drinking and driving, and he informed me that her son is Levi, monster representative on The Council, and that he texted the guy to head his mother off before she caused any mayhem in town.
I admit, I have a morbid kind of fascination with her. But I’d prefer to watch Violetta’s antics from afar.
There’s another round of lightning, the flash bright enough to creep around the window shades. Two seconds later, a crack of noise, so loud that I swear the glass panes will shatter, spears into my bedroom.
And Shrimp keeps snoring, unconcerned with the chaos in the sky.
“Curse The Finned One’s games,” I mutter, scrambling out of the sheets, now soaked with my sweat. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I try to calm my rapid heartbeat by breathing in time with slow counts.
Another boom makes me yelp, and I hurry out of the bedroom, suddenly claustrophobic.
Problem is, the doorway spits me into the sunroom, which is filled with uncovered windows that let in a deafening amount of rain noise.
I scurry through the exposed space, hoping the interior of the house will be quieter.
But the open floor plan muffles nothing.
“I need a fucking noise-deprivation chamber.” I flinch at another flash of light, gripping the kitchen counter in preparation for the noise. Even bracing doesn’t stop the anxiety spike along my nerves.
Needing something to do, as if a simple task will take my mind off of Mother Nature having a bitch fit outside, I search out a glass in the cabinets, then fill it at the fridge, trying to ignore how my fingers shake.
“Clementine?”
The shriek I let out is worthy of a horror movie stabbing. Acting on instinct alone, I whirl around and chuck the only weapon I have at the intruder—my full glass of water.
There’s a thunk, then, “Fuck!” then another thunk.
The kitchen light flicks on, and I blink in the sudden illumination. As the spots clear from my vision, I find myself staring at a scowling Griffith, who is clutching his head. Making an educated guess, I’d say that’s the spot where my water glass hit him.
Also, he’s soaked.
“You scared me!”
Thunder rips through the night, and I cringe back against the counter. There’s no attempting normal. I’m in pain, on edge, and recovering from a jump scare.
Griffith’s anger turns into confusion as he takes in my defensive crouch. “I’m not going to hurt you. What the fuck?”
In a spine-breaking effort, I straighten. “I know.” My voice is breathless, as if I’d been running from the murderer I just assumed he was. “It’s the storm.”
Griffith, still rubbing his forehead, glances toward the rain-drenched windows. “Still have nightmares during them?”
He refers to my nighttime fits like he knows. Like he was there when I woke up sobbing, clutching at my blankets, searching for something I could never recall. Inconsolable until morning. I guess Carl was forthcoming about all issues he dealt with related to me.
But can I blame him?
My brother was too young to take on the role of dad, much less to a self-destructive teenager. How can I begrudge him talking about the struggles with his best friend?
“I wasn’t. Having a nightmare.” Which is true. Therapy helped. “But it was storming the night this happened.” I wave at my side. “I think that might be what has me in fight-or-flight mode. Piled on old anxiety.”
Despite the storm causing my panic, it was also the only reason I made it out alive from my hunter encounter. Merfolk can manipulate water, and I shot the pouring droplets straight into my attackers’ eyes during the fight, giving myself enough of an advantage to land a few blows.
“What old anxiety?”
Damn, I said more than I’d meant to.
My initial urge is to tell him to mind his own business. But something about bludgeoning him with my water glass has me thinking that maybe I owe Griffith a touch of honesty.
“My parents,” I admit. “The night after they left, there was a thunderstorm.”
After that, every time lightning struck, so did bad dreams. I could only fall asleep once Carl unrolled a sleeping bag on the floor of my room. I’d let my hand dangle over the side of the bed, and he’d hold it in his. With that, I could sleep.
Then, the next morning, I would pretend like nothing had happened.
Never thanked him.
Gods, I’m such an ungrateful bitch.
Guilt tears at my stomach worse than the wound in my side.
Carl would be better off without me. I never should have come back.
“Don’t say that,” Griffith snarls, which is when I realize I spoke out loud.
“What would you have done instead? Kept running until that wound killed you? Or until a hunter found you and did it themselves?” The wolf stalks closer to me, fire in his eyes.
“You think that’s a better outcome? You think losing you wouldn’t fucking wreck him? ”
“What then? It’s better for him to watch me die up close?” My tight voice is just above a whisper, but of course his werewolf ears pick it up.
Griffith pinches my chin, tilting my face up until I can’t avoid his eyes. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
“You don’t get to decide.”
“The fuck I don’t.”
Our breaths mingle, and another roll of thunder fills the kitchen. But caged in by Griffith, I don’t have the instinctive urge to cringe in fear. In his arms, I feel safe.
“You’re a cocky shit,” I tell him, no true bite in my voice.
His smile is half snarl. “And you’re a violent piece of work. But I guess that does it for me.”
My eyes widen at what he just insinuated.
Griffith huffs a laugh, presses a barely there kiss to my forehead, then steps back and strips off his shirt.
“Uh, excuse me,” I sputter, choking on my own breath in the aftermath of his affectionate gesture and the confrontation with his rock-hard body. “Presumptuous much?”
“You soaked my shirt, little mermaid.” He wipes a hand down his ripped chest. “Some of us don’t like getting wet.”
I swallow, then narrow my eyes as Griffith drags his hand along the same tantalizing path it just traveled. As if he wants to bring attention to his body.
“Oh my gods, Violetta was right.”
He pauses. “About what?”
“About you. And me.” I wave at his seductive stance. “You’re trying to woo me!”
The werewolf goes still, his eyes narrowing. Then he drops his hand and grunts. “Am not.”
“Oh, so you normally fondle your perfectly sculpted pecs in the middle of the night, standing alone in your kitchen?”
“Perfectly sculpted?”
I roll my eyes. “You know how good-looking you are. Stop acting coy.”
Griffith leans forward, bracing his hands on the counter behind me, bracketing me with his arms. “Maybe I want to know how good-looking you think I am.”
My whole body heats, and I raise a hand between us … then boop him on the nose. “Wooing.”
He barks a laugh, and the humor in his eyes is the most attractive thing about him. “Put a movie on. I’ll get changed. We’ll get through this storm together.”
I watch him jog out of the room, as if he’s in a hurry to get changed and come back.
And I wonder when Griffith stopped hating me.
My theory that he’s truly gotten over his animosity toward me is supported even further when he returns and immediately drapes a blanket over my lap. He also makes me a cup of chamomile tea and doesn’t object to me turning on a reality show about the crews that work on luxury yachts.
Love some drama on the sea.
From the corner of my eye, I watch him sink into the couch with his own steaming mug and try to figure the wolf out. Concentrating on the mystery of Griffith is a great distraction from the steady roll of thunder outside.
“You going to watch me this whole time? If so, I’m changing the show.”
I snort, not even pretending to be embarrassed. “You know you’re interested.”
“Only in the boats.”
I chuckle, then ask a question I can’t suppress anymore. “Where are your parents?”
He jerks at what must seem like a completely random topic shift. But the bad memories brought up by storms always revolve around my mom and dad, which led me to wonder once again about Griffith’s family situation.
He clears his throat, then waves toward the dark windows. “Home, I suspect. They live in the Of the Claw section.”
“Have they always?”
Griffith nods, gaze locked on the TV, shoulders a touch too stiff.
I keep pressing, wanting to understand what has him on edge. “I don’t think I’ve ever met them. At least, I can’t remember. Which is weird, right? Since you and Carl have been close forever.”
Plus, the town is small.
Griffith grunts. “They stick to the woods. Don’t come into town much.” When I just stare at him, Griffith sighs and continues, “They’d rather run with wolves than talk to humans. Or other mythics.”
“Huh.” I try to imagine that, having parents who cut themselves off from a large part of the community. Must have felt isolating. Especially when Griffith was too young to shift. “Do you run with them much?”
Griffith crosses his arms over his chest, and I expect him to stop answering my questions. But he doesn’t shut me out, even if I’m making him uncomfortable. “Only on the full moon. Not always then either. They …” He grunts, shifts, and tries again. “They don’t make much of an effort. To see me.”
The words hurt my heart because, damn, do I know what that feels like. I always assumed Griffith, social guy that he is, had a set of two loving parents who doted on him. But it sounds like he’s almost as abandoned as I am.
Or is it worse—to have your family nearby, a handful of minutes away, and still, they don’t bother to see you?
I reach out a foot and poke his thigh with my toe. He flicks his eyes down, then up to my face, brow tilted in cautious confusion.
“If you want some family, I’ll lend you my brother. Short-term rental. Discount deal.”
Griffith barks a laugh, and his arms relax to his sides, one hand settling on my ankle. The heat from his palm seeps up my leg until I’m sure I don’t need a blanket anymore.
“Thanks,” he growls, the noise more playful than threatening. “Can I get two for one?”
“You want me as your sister?” I poke him again, then shiver as he rubs a thumb over the sole of my foot in one firm stroke.
“I don’t think you’re ready for what I want.”
That steals all my teasing words, and I pretend to focus fully on the show even though I don’t comprehend anything after the moment Griffith pulls both my feet into his lap.
Even the lightning fades to nothing.