Page 25 of Bloodbane

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Staring into the Abyss

{ R U B Y }

The frigid air gusts over my too-warm face for a single heartbeat before it’s blocked by Grayson stepping in front of me. He reaches out a hand behind him, keeping me at arm’s length as he stalks forward, away from the safety of the house.

I crane my neck, stretching to see around the sizable Grayson-shaped shield in front of me. His hair whips around his head like a sweet-scented halo, and I have to forcibly drag my eyes from the dancing strands to seek out signs of the disturbance. The yard and the street beyond appear empty. Squinting against the onslaught, I turn back to the house. Relief loosens my coiled muscles.

“It’s just the wind,” I call, walking toward the gnarled branches scraping against the house siding. A flash of fur from the corner of my eye pushes my heart into my throat.

Wolves.

I make a move to run to Grayson as fresh panic overrides bravado, but before my foot has even lifted, Grayson is in front of me, curling an arm back, gripping my hip and pulling me heaving chest flush to his back.

Golden eyes stare out of the darkness, just beyond the reach of the hazy streetlight. My heart hammers painfully, forcing sweat through my skin that chills unpleasantly in the freezing air. I grip Grayson’s waist with trembling hands as a high-pitched howl sounds, but then a streak of light-colored fur bolts from the house.

The glowing eyes are gone.

Sagging against Grayson, the shivers trembling through me are as much from relief as embarrassment. My affinity for animals—a passion forged as a means of escape in my darkest days—is how I ended up helping old Sheriff Adams in the first place. Now, after one bad encounter, I’m acting like a scared schoolgirl. The problem is, that’s exactly how I feel.

“Told you it was nothing.” The bravado in my voice doesn’t do a damned thing to slow the racing in my chest.

Grayson’s disagreement is expressed silently, with strong arms sweeping me off my feet once more and moving swiftly back to the house.

“I can walk, you know,” I protest weakly. It’s unnerving how quickly the solid weight of Grayson pressing against me has become a reassuring balm to my mind and body.

But it seems to have the opposite effect on Grayson. I can see the exertion on his face with each step. The limp in his gait is more pronounced now too. I drive my teeth into my lip, keeping the barrage of self-condemning thoughts off my tongue. I’ve been so stupid—my attraction to Grayson is no longer just a distraction, it’s a detriment.

“Put me down. You’re going to hurt yourself more than you already are.”

Grayson ignores the demand until we enter the house. “I’m fine. Are you?”

The sound of Grayson sliding the deadbolt back in place shocks my frayed nerves like a shot. “Never better,” I lie through my teeth.

I walk to the kitchen under my own steam—just barely—before leaning back against the center island. I fold my arms across my chest to hide still-quivering hands. How can I be traumatized by something I don’t remember? Maybe I don’t remember because I’m traumatized? I roll my aching shoulders. There I go with those damn maybes again.

“I distinctly remember promising you a shower and dinner,” I start with a brightness I don’t feel, “but I’m adding wound care to the list as soon as you’ve eaten. I have antiseptic cream and spare dressings upstairs.” I stride to the refrigerator and pull it open to peer inside. “And I may have oversold the healthy thing,” I call, head inside the cold interior. “I don’t suppose you’ll eat tiramisu or week-old lasagna leftovers,” I pause, eyeing the pasta suspiciously before sniffing it and wincing. “No, scratch the leftovers.” I shut the fridge door. “I swear it wasn’t an empty promise to get you over here. It’s just, you know, between the concussion and chasing psychopaths, I kind of blanked on the whole grocery shopping thing.”

Grayson leans against the island, eyes fixed on me. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll have a bite tomorrow when there are more options available.”

“Nuh-uh. You haven’t eaten in days. I’m surprised you’re still standing. There’s gotta be some—” I straighten, clapping my hands together. “Hangover omelets! I always have the ingredients for those.”

“Hangover omelets?”

“Uh-huh.” I genuinely brighten at the small accomplishment of impromptu menu planning. “It’s mostly healthy, I guess. I’ll just have to cut back on the butter and salt and leave out the vodka. So, like… basically just eggs.”

The laughter spilling from Grayson’s throat is molten. It rolls down my spine like warm honey, pooling at the apex of my thighs.

“You should do that more often,” I murmur when I finally find my voice again.

“What’s that?”

“Laugh.”

Silver eyes twinkle knowingly, dropping to the telltale flush creeping up my neck. I turn away on rubbery knees, managing a few steps before sagging against the weathered wood countertop, grateful for the support and separation of the island rising between us. Though I’m becoming accustomed to my body’s visceral reactions, it doesn’t make enduring them any easier. I roll my shoulders again, squeezing them back before stretching my neck to the left, trying to shift my focus from one throbbing ache to another higher up. As if triggered by thought alone, pain shoots up my neck and into my head.

“You’re getting worse.”

“It gets worse before it’s better, isn’t that what they say? I’m not exactly sure who they are, but if they’re right, after a handful of Tylenol and Advil for dinner, and possibly Nyquil for dessert, I should be absolutely smashing tomorrow,” I quip, mostly because I’m pretty sure it can’t get any worse without actually killing me. “Besides, you’re one to talk. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how much pain you’re in. So will it be eggs or a dressing change?”

Grayson moves with a silent grace that should be unsettling, but I can’t help but marvel at his mostly naked body as he rounds the island. He doesn’t stop in front of me but brushes past.

“What are you— oh .”

The muscles that coil tight as Grayson’s bare chest presses against my back relax again as his hands settle on my shoulders, kneading the tight muscles.

“Okay, yeah, that’s…oh, god,” I stammer before I give up trying to form words at all. I drop my chin to my chest. Grayson’s hands are amazing—so large and strong and cool against my flushed skin, working to dissolve the tension from my body. “Please… never… stop… doing… that,” I sigh, melting against the solid body behind me. Powerful thumbs move up to massage small, firm circles into the corded muscles in my neck, but all I can concentrate on is the hard swell of Grayson’s arousal rubbing against my ass. “Jesus, Grayson, is there any part of you that isn’t hard?” I can’t stop my hips from grinding back against the straining desire. “Not that I’m complaining in the least.”

Strong hands lift from my neck and grip my hips, stilling them. I can’t stop the soft whine of disappointment as I rock back against the hold, but Grayson’s grip keeps me motionless easily.

“Seriously? I can feel you torturing the fabric of those pants.” Whether burned away by the earlier liquid courage or unbridled lust, my inhibitions are in ashes. “I bet you’re making just as much mess as I am, but fuck, I’d rather you make a mess of me.”

“ Ruby… ” Grayson’s warning exhale glides over my ear.

My name on his lips sends a bolt of blood to my already throbbing clit.

Grayson’s hands are cool under my fingers as I drag my nails over them—holding him, holding me. I dig the blunt tips a little deeper. The resulting growl from Grayson sends a wave of heat rippling through my whole body.

I’ve never really understood the appeal of kitchen islands. They always seemed impractical: a random bench in the middle of a room. But now, all I can think about is how I want Grayson to bend me over, push me down, and fuck me until I’m screaming and coming all over it.

“I want you.” My voice is desire-roughed, bordering on desperation. “I want to feel you inside me.”

“Fuck.” The deep gravel of echoed desire scrapes over my skin. The strong fingers on my hips dig deeper.

“That’s the idea,” I pant, trying to break the hold, to rock back—needing to move, needing friction, needing Grayson . “If you want me to beg, you just have to say the word and I’ll be on my knees for you in a heartbeat.”

Grayson’s leg sweeps between mine, a heavy boot knocking against my legs and kicking them apart, forcing my thighs to spread for him. A heavy hand lands between my shoulder blades, forcing me down until my breasts meet wood with a thump. The slow drag of fingers raking down my spine continues lower. Lower. I can’t stop the harsh, shuddering breath that pushes out on a moan as those fingers clench, trapping the soft flesh of my ass between them, the squeezing pressure just a whisper on the wrong side of pain.

“Oh, shit.” I whimper as the impressive length of Grayson’s trapped cock grinds against my ass, hard and rough.

“The scent of your arousal has been driving me mad all day,” Grayson grunts, forcing a hand between my fabric-trapped breasts and wood to find my nipple. He rolls the sensitive peak between his fingers almost lazily, squeezing so hard my knees go weak. “And now you’re here, offering yourself up to me. Do you think I have strength enough to say no? When I can hear your heart pounding, knowing you want me?”

“Ahh, please, oh, god .” My whole body feels raw, every nerve lit up like a fucking glowstick. My face slides through my slick trail of spit as I jerk on the counter, grappling behind me at Grayson’s body, trying to pull him closer, needing more.

“When I can smell you, so wet for me,” Grayson purrs, his free hand cupping me roughly. His fingers ride the seam of my jeans before he thrusts deep, forcing the thick line deep between my lips. He drives the rigid fabric into me as he scrubs it over my clit furiously. “Knowing you need me to make you come?”

“Oh, fuck, oh god, Grayson!”

My orgasm crashes through me violently—tearing, ripping pleasure so intense the world flares bright behind my closed lids. Stabs of pain-tipped pleasure shudders from my empty pussy, clenching uselessly, up to my spinning head and down to my curled toes. Grayson grinds against me the whole time, the unmovable weight pinning me to the counter until my body goes limp but for the trembling aftershocks of pleasure sparking through me.

Panting on the island, the hazy awareness of Grayson’s weight lifting off me slides through my mind as my shaky legs threaten to buckle entirely. I send a silent prayer up that they hold, and I spin to face Grayson on jittery legs. The island is hard against my back as I lean back against it for support—just in case—and reach for the straining sweatpants. But just as my fingers dip beneath the waistband, Grayson steps back.

“You need to get some sleep.”

“I—what? No. I need your dick in me—my mouth, my hand, my body… your choice,” I tease. The smile I’m expecting to quirk Grayson’s lips doesn’t come. In fact, there’s no trace of the filthy-mouthed, sexy as fuck man who’d just wrung a mind-shattering orgasm from me only a minute before.

“Get some rest. It’s been a long day.” Grayson takes another step backward. “There’s much to discuss tomorrow.”

Not for the first time, the extreme shift in mood has me reeling, but the rejection couldn’t be any clearer… or more humiliating. An echo of Thayne’s brush-off.

I nod more to myself than Grayson, already conducting the mental post-mortem. What the hell just happened? How can Grayson be so hot and then cold? It’s almost like he’s just playing along because he thinks he has to. And, oh, shit. After kissing him at the station and begging him to stay, I had thrown myself at him once alone at home. Does he think this was my endgame? That I just invited him home to get him into bed? He probably thinks finger-banging me in the kitchen is less work and more desirable than having to actually fuck me. The temperature of my already flushed skin increases painfully. Two for two rejections in one day—a perfect strike-out rate.

“What do we need to talk about?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. I fail miserably, but at least Grayson has the good grace to pretend not to notice.

“It can keep until tomorrow.”

How the hell could I have gotten this so wrong? Twice.

“Yeah. Sure,” I say dully. “The guest bedroom is upstairs. The bed’s already made and spare blankets are in the hall closet.” With one final look at Grayson, I turn and head toward the staircase. When I reach the doorway I pause but don’t look back. “Good night, Grayson.”

For reasons I can’t explain, it feels more like goodbye. And if it is, if Grayson leaves in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t blame him. Part of me wishes I could run away too: back to a time when I knew who I was, back to when I wouldn’t act so desperate with a man I hardly know, back when I felt in control of myself and my life. But there is no escape from this mess I’ve made.

I’m certain now. There is no denying that something is wrong with me. I’m staring into the abyss of something terrifying, something I can’t see or explain, but I know it’s there. Waiting. Growing. And I have no idea how to stop it.