Page 21 of Bound to the Griffin (Hillcrest Hollow Shifters #3)
Gwendolyn
I don’t know how long we’d been flying when the black horizon began to soften, paling at the edges.
At first, I thought it was just the moonlight shifting, a trick of the eyes.
But then the faintest streak of color—rose, then amber—threaded through the darkness.
Dawn was creeping over the horizon with a colorful brush, and I was seeing it from the back of a griffin.
The cold bit hard at my cheeks, my fingers stiff where they clutched his feathers, but I couldn’t stop staring. The whole sky was opening, painted in fire and gold, breaking into something new. It made my chest ache, made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
As the light grew, I could see Hillcrest Hollow below—not just shadowy outlines anymore, but a handful of rooftops and streets.
From up here, it looked peaceful, almost innocent.
The layer of snow that covered the B&B’s roof also hid its imperfections, though I could still see some of them.
I winced at the sight of the crumbling, crooked chimney and the drooping, damaged gutters.
So much work to be done. I hoped Jackson was up for it, like he said.
It was the one job I knew I could not do, but unlike me, he could fly. He didn’t need to fear a fall.
We banked wide over the forest, the griffin’s wings catching the rising sun.
I saw roads spiderwebbing below, some properly paved, others little more than snow-packed dirt, winding between stands of pine.
A handful of remote cabins dotted the landscape, some neat and sturdy, others weathered and crooked.
Smoke drifted from some of those chimneys, thin and gray against the sky, but most stood empty and cold.
Then my gaze snagged on something strange: a bridge, half-buried in snow, sagging precariously over a frozen stream.
A thin coil of smoke rose nearby, but I couldn’t see a house.
Just trees, silent and bare, and what appeared to be a hill of pristine snow between them, from which the smoke was coming.
My skin prickled. It felt like someone was living there, but whoever it was, that was no conventional house.
We climbed higher, the forest growing denser the farther we got from town.
It was not exactly hilly, but this was definitely higher terrain, overlooking the town, farms, and other cabins.
That’s when I saw it: a house, bigger than any of the others, perched on a ridge like it owned the view.
Glass walls reflected the forest and town below.
A stretch of road had been cleared all the way up to its wide garage, where two gleaming cars sat like trophies.
Not quite a mansion, but not some cozy mountain getaway either.
Whoever lived there had money, and wanted everyone to know it.
Jackson’s wings angled sharply, carrying us down toward the road.
He landed hard, claws digging into packed snow, and I felt the tremor of unease ripple through him.
His head stayed locked on the glassy house, sharp beak pointing.
I could not see his eyes from behind him, perched on his wide lion’s back, but I knew they were sharp and focused.
Whoever lived there, it did not seem like Jackson trusted them.
Then he lowered himself, a slow sinking through his paws until he was belly-down in the snow.
My boots could now touch the ground—barely.
That’s how big his chest was in this shape: all warm, tawny fur and muscle, moving like bellows between my thighs.
It felt a little illicit—a thrill—when I thought of it, and that made me clumsy when I dismounted, staggering to my feet, boots crunching in the frost.
A flash of gold seared my vision, and then he was just…
Jackson again, standing solid and sure in his clothes as if the griffin had been nothing but a dream.
I blinked, taking in his wide shoulders beneath his tan sheriff’s jacket.
The gold star gleamed on his chest, catching the light and winking.
His hair, blonde and short, was a little tousled from the wind, hat missing, but probably because he forgot to put it on before we went outside, not thanks to this transformation thing he could do.
He wrapped his arm around my middle, pulling me against him.
“You steady after that?” His voice was rough, but his eyes searched mine like I was the only thing that mattered.
“We okay?” I knew what he was asking, not just about the landing and my wobbly dismount.
He wanted to know if we were good, if this was going to work between us.
The world still felt tilted, spinning too fast, but I nodded roughly, a fast jerk of my chin.
Words weren’t enough after that, so I lifted up on my toes and kissed him, a promise more than a question.
He kissed me back, soft but fierce, and when we pulled apart, we just…
looked at each other. It was not a look I’d shared with anyone before, more intimate than what we’d done in the bedroom last night.
That look said yes: I believed, I trusted, I knew .
What exactly, I had no words for yet, but being here with him was enough for now.
The moment shattered in a blast of heat and sound.
Flame erupted against the tree beside us, charring bark in a sudden, violent bloom.
I yelped, the heat licking across my face, but Jackson reacted instantly, shoving me behind cover, his body braced like a shield.
I got a mouthful of snow, not my first since coming here, but that was a small price to pay.
Huddled behind the thick trunk of a tree and blinking through the smoke, I tried to make sense of what had just happened.
Were we under attack? Had someone shot at us?
I noticed the other trees along the drive bore scorch marks too.
Strange, round, blackened circles, as if someone had been practicing with—well…
with what, actually? A shotgun? Fireworks?
They looked like starbursts, too big to be from a gun, though I wasn’t quite sure, because I’d never seen either gun or shotgun damage on a tree before.
Then I saw him: a man, tall, dark hair tousled, standing in the open doorway of the cabin.
He wore a silk robe, of all things, open at the chest to reveal pale muscles on a lean frame.
Above his hand, something sparked to life, flames dancing in what roughly looked like a baseball shape. A fireball, an honest-to-God fireball.
“Fuck off, Jackson!” His voice carried, raw and furious.
“I’m not one of your goody two-shoes sheep.
I don’t need you to check up on me every damn week!
” His words were accompanied by his hand winding back, the ball of flames tightening in his grip but clearly not burning him.
Then he lobbed it through the air in our direction, and it exploded against the tree we were hiding behind.
My heart thundered in my throat. Magic. Real, dangerous magic.
A half-naked man throwing fireballs at my head was probably the more insane part of the last twenty-four hours, and that included finding a huge stash of money and sleeping with a man who could turn into a mythical creature.
This was absolutely insane, but it wasn’t fear that made my heart race.
This was excitement. I’d landed straight into some of my favorite novels, in a world I never thought was real but always hoped for, just a little.
Jackson leaned out just enough to peek around the tree, then glanced back at me.
And damn him, he winked. Actually winked, a cocky grin tugging at his mouth like this was some game.
It answered the giddy happiness that filled me at discovering just how real this world was.
Inappropriate as the response was, when faced with someone who threw exploding fireballs at us, I was happy, and from the looks of it, Jackson was, too.
Then he called out to the hostile, fire-lobbing guy on the porch, voice steady and cool, “Not here for that. I’m here on business.
” The sizzle that had filled the air as the guy grew his next projectile abruptly cut off.
From where I was peeking around the bulky trunk of the tree, I could see it wink out in his hand.
Then he crossed his arms over his chest and, with a much more polite, businesslike tone, said, “Why didn’t you say so? Come in.”
Jackson’s hand closed around mine, warm and solid, pulling me up from where he’d shoved me into the snow.
I was still shaken, still staring at the scorch mark hissing faintly against the tree, but he didn’t give me a chance to linger.
He brushed me off, literally, palms skating down my arms, across my sides, smoothing the snow from my coat and jeans.
It should have been practical, quick, but the heat of his touch lingered far longer than the snow ever could.
By the time his hand brushed down my hip and squeezed, just slightly, I wasn’t cold anymore.
The stranger watched the whole display with a gaze so sharp it cut.
Brooding, dark eyes that didn’t blink nearly enough, his mouth tilted in the kind of smirk that promised trouble, not charm.
Still, he turned without another fireball in hand, gesturing for us to follow him through the open door.
He didn’t wait for us to reach the front porch, his robe swishing as he disappeared through the tall doorway.