Page 48 of Shattered by Grace (The Locke Empire Duet #1)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

A nother flash of lightning lit up the skyline, casting shadows across the walls as the rain lashed against the windows.

This storm wasn’t ending anytime soon.

Victoria sighed, running a hand through her damp hair as she eyed the clothes on the bed.

She pulled the oversized t-shirt over her head first, inhaling the lingering scent of cedar and something distinctly him.

It was ridiculous how comforting it was.

The sweats followed, cinched at the waist but still hanging loose on her frame.

She rolled the waistband once, shaking her head at how utterly small she felt wrapped in his clothes.

Her eyes drifted across the room as she dressed. Everything was meticulous, curated. Nothing out of place. A man who needed control over his surroundings. No surprise there.

She padded toward the dresser, fingers ghosting over the smooth surface. A small silver watch rested near the edge, next to a leather wallet. Beside it, a framed photograph caught her attention. She hesitated before picking it up.

It was old, slightly worn around the edges.

Tristan was younger, maybe sixteen or seventeen, standing next to a man who had to be Cassian Locke.

Even in the grainy image, the resemblance was undeniable—the sharp jaw, the piercing eyes.

But while Tristan’s smirk held mischief, Cassian’s expression was unreadable. Cold. Detached.

But it wasn’t just the two of them.

Another figure stood beside Tristan, slightly smaller but unmistakably similar.

Tyson Locke.

Though the brothers looked nearly identical, there was a difference in their postures. Tristan stood with casual confidence, his smirk cocky, effortless. Tyson’s smile was more subdued, guarded even.

Victoria ran her thumb over the glass, her chest tightening.

A sharp crack of thunder rattled the windows, making her snap out of it. She set the frame back down carefully, exhaling as she turned away.

Her gaze shifted, catching something she hadn’t noticed before.

A book corner.

It wasn’t what she expected. The shelves were sleek, dark wood, packed with books that didn’t seem like they belonged in Tristan Locke’s home—but there they were.

A Court of Thorns and Roses. Fourth Wing.

Iron Flame. Onyx Storm. Lights Out. Fantasy.

A surprising softness in the middle of his rigid world.

A leather chair sat angled in the corner, well-worn but clearly loved, a small lamp beside it. She could almost picture him sitting there, lost in a book while the storm raged outside.

Something about that image unsettled her more than it should have.

Something rich, warm and savory drifted through the air, curling up the staircase and settling around her.

Her stomach twisted. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.

But it wasn’t just the food that stopped her in her tracks.

It was the sound. A voice, deep and low, carrying through the house. Singing.

Victoria froze.

The sound was unexpected, almost surreal. She edged closer to the stairwell, careful not to make a sound as she listened. The song was soft, unfamiliar, yet it held something raw, almost wistful.

Her fingers curled around the banister as she slowly descended, heart pounding harder than it should have. The storm still raged outside, wind rattling the windows, rain cascading down the glass.

But inside, in the warmth of his home, Tristan Locke was singing. And for the first time since meeting him, she didn’t know what to do.

The soft melody wrapped around her, pulling her deeper into the moment.

His voice was low, husky, like it had been dipped in something dark and sensual.

Every note seemed to reach straight to her chest, tightening something deep within her.

She could smell the savory richness of garlic and simmering tomatoes before she even stepped into the kitchen, and yet, it was the sight of him that made her pause.

The candlelight flickered, casting shadows over the sharp lines of his jaw and the lean muscle of his back as he stirred the pot on the stove. He moved with a slow, fluid grace. Nothing hurried or forced,like he was completely at ease, but every single movement seemed efficient and purposeful.

Lawrd he’s sexy.

Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t help but imagine how he looked when he was like this: his shirt untucked, sleeves pushed up, his body slightly tense as he worked, but still relaxed.

His hands were large, fingers deftly moving through the motions, and she wondered what it would feel like to have those rough, demanding hands on her again.

The music played on, but the storm outside was nothing compared to the one brewing inside her.

She hadn’t expected this. The whole damn situation felt different now, more intimate.

His voice was like a caress, the scent of food drawing her in like an irresistible pull, and she was suddenly hyper-aware of how much she wanted him.

When he turned, catching her gaze, his eyes darkened, just the slightest bit. The tension between them thickened, charged with something unspoken.

His smile was slow, almost lazy, as if he knew exactly what effect he was having on her. “Hope you’re hungry, Grace,” he said, his voice rougher than before, like he’d been running his tongue over the words as much as he had the music.

Fuck me.

Victoria’s breath hitched. Does he know what he is doing to me? Her body responded without hesitation, her pulse pounding in her ears. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus.

“I didn’t expect this,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, betraying her.

Tristan’s smirk deepened, a glimmer of danger in his eyes.

“You didn’t expect me to cook? I told you not to get too excited.

” He stepped closer, and she couldn’t help but admire how much taller he was up close, how his chest brushed against hers just enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him.

He’s intoxicating.

Her mind screamed at her to keep her distance, to not lean into the warmth of him, to not let herself drown in the pull of his presence. But her body was already lost, aching with anticipation, hungry in more ways than one.

The storm outside raged on, but in that moment, everything was still. Her breath, his gaze, the flicker of candlelight and the heat between them. Nothing else mattered.

Tristan reached for the glass of wine that had been sitting on the counter, unnoticed until now.

It was a smooth, rich red, and the way his fingers curled around the stem made her stomach flutter.

He approached with quiet certainty, each step measured, as if he’d already decided how this would end.He was the definition of sexy.

It wasn’t just his looks, though his jawline alone could’ve set hearts on fire, but the effortless way he moved, the magnetic aura around him that made every inch of his body seem like a temptation she couldn’t resist.

Without a word, he handed her the glass, his fingers brushing hers, sending a jolt of heat straight through her. His hand lingered for just a beat longer than necessary, his grip steady as he guided her down the last two steps.

Victoria’s breath hitched, feeling the raw intensity of the moment.

His touch was firm, but gentle, like he was in control of everything—her, the space between them, the tension hanging thick in the air.

When they reached the bar stool, he pulled it out with one hand, never breaking contact with hers.

“Here,” he murmured, voice husky and low, as he helped her sit. There was something intimate about the way he moved, so careful yet so sure of himself. It sent a shiver down her spine as she settled, her legs brushing against his for just a second.

His hand slid from hers but not before his thumb grazed over her wrist in a way that felt deliberate, lingering. As if he wanted her to feel it, wanted her to remember the heat of his touch.

Then he turned back to the stove, moving with that same fluid grace, but his presence never quite left her.

She watched him, transfixed as he plated the spaghetti, steaming, fragrant, with fresh parm grated over the top and basil scattered like an afterthought, though nothing about it seemed casual.

The way he worked, the way he moved, everything he did felt personal, like he was offering her a piece of himself with each action.

Tristan met her gaze over his shoulder, that dark, intense look returning to his eyes. The rawness of the moment hung in the air, thick and charged. He didn’t smile. Not yet. But there was something in the way his eyes held hers, something that told her he knew exactly what she was thinking.

“Enjoy,” Tristan murmured, that slow, crooked smile pulling at his lips as he placed the steaming dish in front of her. The spaghetti was beautifully simple, yet it smelled so damn good her stomach gave a happy, eager lurch.

Victoria’s mind shifted rapidly as she inhaled the rich aroma, her thoughts scattering from damn he’s gorgeous to is it poisoned to I’m starving .

The music still played softly in the background, wrapping them in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the sound like a soft caress, blending perfectly with the heat swirling between them.

Tristan slid into the stool next to her, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body just inches away.

He didn’t crowd her, but he didn’t pull back either.

She could feel the presence of him, solid and steady beside her, and it made her want to lean into it, to reach out, to close the space between them and see what else was there.

“This looks amazing, Tristan. Thank you.” Her voice was softer than usual, tinged with a genuine appreciation for the dish, and maybe a bit more than that. She hadn’t expected any of this, least of all the quiet, tender side of him that was starting to creep out in these small moments.