Page 8

Kael

T his is too much.

It would honestly be so much easier if Dravin truly was a class A prick who crashed into my life like a tornado, ripped it apart, razed it to the ground, uprooted me, and set me down, and then disappeared and left me to fend for myself.

I’ve cycled through every thought possible to describe him.

Dark, broody, creepy, off-kilter, strange, dubious, unexpected, inexplicable, mysterious, unfathomable, infuriating.

But a monster?

Why did I call him that? Why did I have to use that word?

At the heart of me, I know he’s not responsible for any of the tortured shit I’ve been through this past year. I should have known he was always out there. He was the only person I could trust, and I should have done that instead of wildly taking matters into my own hands.

I have only myself to blame for ending up here.

I suppose it’s really not that bad of a city. It’s actually kind of… quaint, sweet, and peaceful. It’s not Hart’s fault that I don’t want to give it a chance. It’s not Dravin’s fault that I’m acting like a brat and taking out my pain on him.

I pushed him. And pushed him. And pushed him. I didn’t think it was possible for a man like him to come apart like this. Unraveled, unglued, seams showing, messy and bleeding.

Like me.

I’ve shown zero gratitude for all that he’s done for me.

I’ve taken the death of my brother and put it on his shoulders.

I’ve literally asked him why he couldn’t have saved Marcus and told him that it should have been him.

Before Marcus was murdered, I would have said that never, in a hundred million lifetimes, could I have ever thought those words, let alone said them out loud.

I’ve done something to this man. I’ve burrowed under skin I thought was impenetrable. He’s not a monster. He’s flesh and blood.

And right at this moment he looks pissed enough to dismantle that lawnmower, take the blade, get down on his hands and knees, and cut all the grass by propelling it with his own hands and the sheer force of his anger just because it would be more satisfying.

The sun overhead glares down, not a cloud in sight to offer the least bit of shelter.

Dravin’s shirtless, but that just shows off his impressive body, muscled, yet streamlined.

His entire torso and arms flex as he attacks the lawn and soon sweat glistens on his skin, droplets cascading down his neck and trickling over hard pecs and chiseled abs.

There are small scars slashed across his body, little white flecks that range all the way to larger jagged lines.

His arms are flecked with scars, but more so ropey veins and sinewy muscles.

One shoulder has the kind of puckered mark that looks suspiciously like a bullet wound.

It’s the right side of his face that has the most scarring, mainly around his right eye, bisecting the eyebrow and continuing into his hairline.

But it doesn’t distract from the fact that he’s smoking hot.

It’s been impossible for me to focus on anything this past year other than moving forward. I don’t know what’s happening to me today, but the image of Dravin’s naked chest is now going to be stamped into my brain for eternity.

I flick my eyes up to his face quickly. I was cowardly, afraid to see the naked pain burning fever bright in his eyes or see the devastation that I’d wrought, but I force myself to look now.

His jaw is clenched, a vein thundering at his temple.

The long dark strands of his hair flop over his eye, not gentle or boyish, but somehow aggressive since they’re slicked down.

His hair obscures his right eye, but the one pulses madly around the whole yard before his dark gaze finally settles back on me with something close to absolute menace.

I swallow hard, breathing like I’m the one about to stroke out. So far, I’ve managed to protect the flowers, but I should have known that my threats didn’t faze him. He was simply biding his time.

My heart jackhammers as he turns the mower and starts right for me.

He wouldn’t hurt me. Not ever. I don’t know him, but I do trust him. Even I’d had a choice, he’s the kind of man who a person can put their faith in. I don’t know how I know that, but I’ve felt it before. It’s my truth.

It doesn’t stop my palms from sweating or my skin from going clammy as that mower advances.

I’m not worried that he’d hurt me and we’re not playing some fucked up version of chicken where I have to dodge before he comes at me, but the yard has flowers all along the edges and I can only stand in one spot at a time.

Did I make him angry enough to punish the flowers?

“Dravin!” I shout over the roar of the mower.

“I- okay. We can talk. But just stop for a second. Please!” He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even slow. He’s getting dangerously close to the line of poppies scattered amongst the towering hollyhocks.

After that, it’s just half a second until they all get mown down.

Those flowers are the one bright spot in my life right now.

My mom used to plant them in our tiny front and back yards. She had every different color. Buttercream yellow, red so deep they were almost black, scarlet, purple, and at least five different pinks.

“Dravin!” I take one step forward to charge after him.

I don’t know what I could do to get him to stop short of leaping on his back, which would probably do nothing because he’d keep on mowing with me up there like a rabid monkey all the same, or roundhouse kicking him in the face, which would only piss him off and he’d probably run us both over by accident.

He lets go of the mower and it shuts off instantly. He’s still vibrating the same way I am, feeling like I’ve been locked in the cage of my own body for the past year.

Unfortunately, my eyes go straight to his body no matter how I try to rip them away. I never thought a sweaty man would do it for me, but here I am, fascinated by the slow drip and roll of those beads of moisture over the natural ridges and valleys of his body.

I’ve spent the past year questioning if I’d ever feel like a person again, if I’d ever be able to paint again, feel again, hope again, find joy in even a single thing. If I’d ever be me again.

That twinge that hits me right in the bottom of my stomach has me both incredibly annoyed and so relieved that my eyes get dangerously wet.

“The flowers for you to come to the clubhouse on Friday night,” he barters.

That’s two days away.

“And your participation in a few activities with the old ladies and their kids.”

I manage, through sheer force of will, to keep my eyes on his face and not lower them down to where a scrap of black elastic from his boxers sticks out above his jeans. I very much would like to trace the lines of his Adonis V.

“Isn’t that very public?”

He studies me hard, his gaze boring a hole through my head.

“Okay! Okay.” I hold up my hands in a gesture of peace. “I’ll agree to something at the clubhouse and if a few of the women can do something lowkey, then… maybe.”

“Why do I feel like you’re promising me whatever I want to hear?”

I thrust my hands onto my hips. “Maybe because I want you to stop angry mowing. Rage and heavy machinery don’t mix. You’re scaring the flowers so bad that they might not recover.” I let out a shaky breath. “I’m just trying to follow your rules about keeping my head down.”

“My rules clearly aren’t making you happy.”

I blink at him.

Why did I never consider that he might actually care how I feel?

I’ve tried to hold out. I’ve locked myself in the house, stayed in the yard, and brooded. I’ve cycled through every single emotion. I’m so tired of feeling hopeless and helpless. I was so angry at Dravin for doing this to me, for bringing me straight into the throbbing epicenter of my pain.

“You can’t keep living like this,” he adds, but his tone is missing his signature gruff, bossy certainty.

“I can’t or you can’t?”

He stares at me for a few moments then turns, grabs the mower and wheels it roughly to the shed even though there are a few patches of lawn that haven’t been touched.

He didn’t move any of the lawn chairs. He’s nearly there when he turns and stalks back to me.

My heart just about plummets straight out of my chest and the amount of heat in my body could roast an entire spitted pig.

He stops a foot away, giving me just enough space not to feel crowded. His brows knit together, and I don’t like his expression. It’s too open, festering with pain, regret, and confusion, brimming over with feelings I didn’t even know he was capable of.

That’s on me.

Being a judgmental, horrible bitch. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why Marcus would have chosen to ask this man, of all people, for this favor.

Marcus made a lot of questionable decisions after he went back to civilian life.

I just didn’t get it, but maybe that was a lie I was clinging to so that I could stay mad.

It helps to have a scapegoat for your rage and grief.

I can’t very well tell myself I didn’t understand and at the same time, know that Dravin was the rock I clung to when everything else was flooded around me.

I can’t admit that I trusted him and still harbor that wild, misplaced animosity.

“I don’t like…” He swipes sweat out of his eyes and forces out the rest. “All those red canvases. They feel like a metaphor.”

How did I fail to see that this is extremely painful for him? Because I assumed . I was selfish in my grief. I could only see what was right in front of me and that was my own overwhelming misery. It bled into every part of my life, erasing my regular sense of compassion and empathy.