Page 2 of Bound to the Griffin (Hillcrest Hollow Shifters #3)

It stung far more than it should have. “Why’s that?” I asked, my voice a little too high, a little too defensive. It didn’t even matter why he thought so, just that he, and the rest of the town, were rejecting me before they even knew me.

He shrugged one elegant shoulder, the gesture impossibly elegant for someone standing behind a counter that also sold drain cleaner.

“City folk never last long here,” he said, as if that was all the explanation I needed.

City folk, lumping me in with people I’d never fit in with to begin with, which was why I was here. Damn it.

My lips parted to retort, but I bit the inside of my cheek and swallowed the words.

I wanted to say something snappy, something biting.

Maybe point out how little he looked like your average small-town shopkeep himself, with his tailored clothes and predator’s poise.

But I kept it to myself. Picking a fight on my first day wouldn’t earn me any bread. Literally or figuratively.

“So,” I said instead, pulling out my little notebook and flipping to my shopping list, the pages already smudged from nervous fingers. “Do you have all of this? Any of this?” I’d settle for primer and paint; I’d be infinitely happy if he had any mold killer, and a bag of plaster for me to mix.

He barely spared it a glance. “No.” No? That was it? No explanation, no alternatives, no polite regret? I stared down at the list. Half of it I could see on the shelves behind him. My heart sank like a stone through water. He didn’t even want my business. So that’s how it was?

“Oh.” My voice came out small and breathy.

“Okay, then.” I turned slowly, my fingers curling tightly around the notebook, my pulse pounding in my ears with a fresh wave of despair.

If I couldn’t even buy cleaning supplies here, I’d have to drive to the next town over, and who knew how far that was?

My car wasn’t exactly snow-queen-worthy.

How long would it take to get back? How much money would I have to waste on gas for every little thing?

The bell over the door jingled again. The shopkeeper’s eyes flicked past me, and something shifted in the air. I turned, too, blinking against the sudden draft that swept through the door.

The man who stepped inside was... arresting.

Towering, blond, and broad-shouldered, he filled the doorway like a storm cloud rolling in.

His coat was thick and utilitarian—army green—with a sheriff’s badge catching the light at his chest. A fine dusting of snow clung to his shoulders and boots, and the air seemed to sharpen with his presence.

My breath caught, my heart leaping like it recognized something I didn’t have words for.

He was handsome, fiercely so. Not in the polished, icy way the shopkeeper behind me was, but with the kind of rugged grace that felt carved from stone and wind.

His face was all hard lines and purpose: his jaw square, his eyes the color of polished amber, sharp and chiseled, like an eagle was staring out of that gaze.

Those eyes met mine for half a second, then narrowed—hostile, suspicious.

Of course, that was the standard greeting here; my gut clenched.

I half expected him to pull out a pair of cuffs and arrest me for existing, to drag me out of town.

For some strange reason, his response was the most hurtful yet.

Maybe because it came so fast on the heels of the last rejection, and I was drowning in debt and self-flagellation.

Then the strangest thing happened. His expression shifted, it was only slightly, but it was enough. The stern line of his brow relaxed, the tight set of his jaw loosened, and his gaze softened; not with friendliness, exactly, but it was definitely something warmer.

And then—oh God—came the scent. It hit me like a wave: crisp wind through pine needles, scorched air before a lightning strike, and something wilder beneath that I couldn’t name.

My knees went weak. My heart stuttered in my chest. He stepped farther into the store, and I couldn’t help the way I leaned slightly toward him, like a sunflower tracking the sun.

When he reached the counter, he didn’t look at me. His presence was larger than life, shoulders taking up way too much space, his body towering over mine. Yet I didn’t feel threatened, didn’t feel like he was moving to intimidate, not me, at least. He glared at the icy-cold shopkeeper.

“What’s going on here, Luther?” His voice was gravelly, low, and commanding, the kind of voice people listened to without question.

He leaned on the polished counter with one elbow, and snow drifted down from his hair and shoulders, dancing through the air around him like it was his own personal snowstorm.

Only softer, the ice crystals catching the light in an ethereal, magical fashion.

Luther didn’t flinch from that glare, but something about him coiled tighter, like a snake ready to strike.

“Just making conversation with our new arrival,” he said with a faint sneer.

His eyebrow lifted as if to communicate something privately with the sheriff, but whatever it was, this handsome arrival didn’t pick up on it.

The sheriff turned to me then, and for the second time, our eyes met.

The weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear, like it saw too much, too quickly.

There was no malice in it, just intensity.

“Everything all right, Miss Avery?” he asked, his voice gentle in comparison.

It was the first friendly voice I’d heard since coming here all day.

I blinked, heart doing somersaults. “Yes, I think so. Just... trying to settle in.” The moment felt a little like something out of a dream, like the super-popular guy had just singled me out.

He gave a slow nod, then turned back to Luther with another glare, firm and full of reprimand.

“She needs supplies. Why don’t you try being a neighbor for once?

” Hope surged in my chest. If I could get the supplies I needed after all…

I wouldn’t have to make a dangerous trip on snowy roads, wouldn’t have to spend extra money on gas I couldn’t afford.

Luther’s mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Of course, Sheriff.” That reply was sharp enough to cut, and for some reason, it made the sheriff grin as if he were amused.

Like they were having fun. “Might I remind you of our last town hall meeting?” the shopkeeper added.

That was more than an eyebrow nudge to remind the sheriff, that was a blatant reference.

Had they discussed how to treat me before I arrived? Were they trying to run me out?

The sheriff didn’t respond, but his hand lowered, snatched the notebook with my shopping list from my numb fingers, and plunked it firmly down on the counter.

“Just get her the supplies, leech,” he said.

Then he turned a devastating grin on me, all straight white teeth and dimpled cheeks.

“The name’s Jackson, ma’am. Welcome to Hillcrest Hollow. ”