by T. S. Joyce
Go to her. Go to her.
When he’d been human, he’d loved rain, but new instincts howled for him to be more cautious. Rain muffled the scents and sounds of his surroundings. Everything smelled like ozone, water, and moist earth. And since he was in the city? Wet garbage. With the gym only a couple blocks away, he slowed to a walk. If she’d called the cops, a charging man would look suspicious.
Today he would be especially careful and keep his distance, like a good hunter.
Go to her.
Chapter Eight
Morgan didn’t even bother dressing in gym clothes. What was the point? She wasn’t here for the workout this time. How long had Greyson been watching her? And what direction did he come from? That man was a ghost. For all she knew, he had been watching her for the last year, and she’d never even suspected. If that man didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. Unless she was clever about it.
Rain barreled down from her position in the doorway of a small market. From that vantage point, she could see the boxing gym and down both side streets. She had to know he existed, that all those police officers, detectives, and friends who’d successfully convinced her she was crazy had been wrong.
Once upon a time she’d worn a white T-shirt in a down pour, and a black lacey bra underneath it. That time was now. God she was a disaster. Her cheeks were already on fire with a blush and she didn’t even see him yet. She didn’t want to miss him. She needed to see him again. Needed. To. Rain drops dripped from her hair and eyelashes as she squinted at people rushing by.
There. Her heart beat in rhythm with the steady pounding rain. That was him. Greyson. His long strides were hard to miss. He wore jeans that sagged just a little on his tapered waist, and a hoody hid his downturned face, but it had to be him. Who else would be wearing sunglasses in the middle of a rare torrential Texas downpour?
She bolted for him as soon as he was close enough. She’d imagined this so many times—a reunion with the man she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about, dreaming about, obsessing about for the past year. He was the only anchor to the life she’d known. He’d tried his best to stop the horrors from eating her alive and had done it at the risk of his own well-being. He’d sacrificed his humanity for her.
Oh, she knew what he was.
Memories, hurt, and anger overwhelmed her at the sight of him. She’d meant to talk to him in a calm, collected manner, but when she reached him, she hugged his waist tightly and pressed her cheek against his pounding chest and sobbed like a crazy person.
This was him. Right? The vision of his face had been forever burned into her memory along with everything else that night in the woods. Back when Happy Morgan had died, and sadness had been born. The man was frozen in her arms, his hands up like he was trying not to touch her, but it was him. She would never forget the sharp angles of his jaw.
He hesitated, glanced around, and pushed her back to arms’ length gently, searched her face, but she couldn’t read his thoughts when his eyes were hidden by his sunglasses like this.
“Come with me,” he told her in a low, growly voice that sent chills up her spine.
That voice. It was terrifying, but her survival instincts had apparently snapped, because when he offered her a hand, she slipped her palm against his without hesitation.
Greyson led her toward an alleyway. A shop keeper eyed them suspiciously from a nearby window, but people rarely called the cops in that part of town. The touch of Greyson’s hand against hers was electric. Could he feel the zinging, pulsing currents washing between them? She stared, surprised sparks weren’t flying from their clasped palms. Around the corner and into a dark alley he pulled her, and when they’d reached a dead end, he finally turned. She hated those damn sunglasses that hid him from her.
When she pushed him against a brick wall, he allowed it.
Why was she crying?
Maybe he wouldn’t be able to tell with all the rain, but a traitorous hitch in her breathing threatened to give her away entirely. She was a mess of emotions. Giving into the rawness his reappearance had created in her soul, she sobbed and pressed her palm against his chest. He had a heartbeat. He existed and everyone else was wrong. She hadn’t just imagined him.
God she was so broken, touching a stranger like this.
He gripped her hand softly, and held against his chest as if he didn’t want to lose the touch.
“Why did you leave like that?” she asked, looking up at his sunglass-covered eyes. “It’s you. Tell me it’s you.” Please,” she whispered raggedly. “Tell me you’re Greyson.”
A slight tremor sounded through the rich, deep tones of his voice. “It’s me. I’m Grey. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you in those woods. I didn’t know what I was doing. It’s okay if you hate me.”
What was he talking about? Of course she didn’t hate him. He’d saved her life. She didn’t know how she felt about the stranger but it wasn’t hate. “You saved us, and then you left. I was so scared. You were so hurt. Lana was crying, and my sister…my sister…” She couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t force them out of her throat. Her sister wasn’t here anymore. “I thought you didn’t make it. I thought that thing killed you, too.”
His expression cooled behind the sunglasses as soon as she uttered the words. He was that thing now. She instantly regretted her thoughtless words.
He looked as if he wanted to say something but pursed his lips against it. Would he lie about what he was, try to convince her she was insane just like everybody else? “I didn’t have control of what I was doing,” he said. “I was in so much pain, and I don’t remember much. I don’t remember getting up or leaving you. I remember seeing your sister’s face, and your lips, and then nothing. Flashes of running through the woods come back every now and then, but I can’t tell you why I left you there. I don’t even know where I woke up. It took me two days to get ahold of myself and find help. I’m still messed up from it, Morgan. I’m still really messed up.”
She had to see the face behind the glasses. All of it. Irrationally, she wanted to see every inch of his skin to assure herself she wasn’t imagining him. “Take off your sunglasses.”
A long, low rumble sounded from his chest and vibrated against her open palm. It wasn’t thunder from the storm clouds above. The bone-chilling sound, the haunting melody to her nightmares, reached for her from under the impossibly hard planes of his chest. A warning, but her fear stayed cowered in the dark corners where she’d shoved it all these long months. “Why did you do that?”
Sternly, he shook his head. “I can’t answer all the questions you have.”
She reached up and pulled the sunglasses from his face. He kept his grip on her wrists but made no attempt to stop her. His eyes were closed tightly under the hood he wore. The angles of his face were sharper than she remembered, more fearsome somehow, and he hadn’t shaved this morning. She ran a finger across the sandy blond scruff that decorated his strong jaw, as if touch made him more real. “Open your eyes,” she whispered.
His muscles quivered under her hand but it likely had nothing to do with the cool rain. He opened his eyes slowly and the brilliance of the golden color pooled there was almost too dazzling to look directly at. It was like staring at the sun. No one could ever mistake those for human eyes.
If she’d had any doubt before about the brand of monster he’d become, those liquid amber eyes put them to rest. He pulled his hood back and the chin-length dark blond hair from her memory fell forward into his face. She moved a strand to the side. He’d lost weight in the past year. He hadn’t had an ounce to lose in the first place, but it looked as if he’d struggled to stay healthy. His eyebrows, just a shade darker than his hair, were furrowed but he let her drink him in. He was playing fair. For all she knew, he’d been watching her the entire year. It was her turn now.
His nose was straight and his jaw line masculine. From the brief moments she’d known him out in those woods, she’d seen how intoxicating he was, she just hadn
’t registered it until later, when she worried about him. He’d been a fearless warrior bent on that murdering wolf’s destruction, no matter the cost. Here, in the dirty alley under the unleashing clouds, with those feral eyes and a snarl in his chest, Greyson was utterly consuming.
Softly, she said, “You’re beautiful.”
His shaky whisper tore at her. “I’m a monster.”
“You aren’t. I thought…I hoped that this is what happened. I was afraid you died. When the police searched the woods, do you know what they found?” she asked. “They found a man’s body. He died of knife wounds. Your knife wounds. I know what I saw. He was a wolf, but he turned into a man to die. He bit you, and I thought you died trying to protect us. Like Marianna did.”
“Oh shit,” he said, dipping his gaze. “Your sister didn’t make it?”
The burning in her eyes was instant, so she shook her head hard and pulled away from him.
His hands hung open at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them now that they were empty. “How’s your kid? Is she okay?”
She gave him a ghost of a smile. “Lana was Marianna’s daughter. She’s my niece. She’s fine, thanks to you.” She crossed her arms over the soaking white shirt and looked around for anything to block the rain. “Do you have a place around here we could dry off?”
Without a word, he took her hand and pulled her down the sidewalk the direction from which he’d come. Her hand was so small nestled in his, and though bold and out of line, she intertwined her fingers with his to better feel the warmth of his skin against hers. He didn’t pull away or look at her oddly so she pursed her lips against a victorious smile. She’d never felt so connected to anyone she’d ever met, and her heart had latched onto a man who was obviously built of complete damage. What did that say about her?
Rain poured relentlessly and their shoes made splashing sounds as they ran. Greyson had long, easy strides and supernatural grace, so her clumsy jog seemed like a peg legged pirate hobble next to his. She stifled a smirk at how mismatched they must look to observers. He was tall and belonged on the cover of some exotic magazine, while she was like a tiny, sopping kitten wearing the wrong lingerie. Maybe she should bolt now, while he still found her tolerable.
A dilapidated apartment building that looked to only have two stories and a handful of rooms loomed before them. He held open the door and waited as she shook the excess water from her shoes and clothes and stepped inside. A row of metal mailboxes lined the wall under cracked plaster stairs and one of the fluorescent lights above them pulsed and buzzed like it needed replacing. He turned while climbing the stairs in front of her with a worried look. “I don’t have visitors very often, so my place might be a little messy.”
“That’s okay, sometimes I’m messy too.” On her insides and in her home. Messy little mess mess. She followed him up the stairs and to a door at the end of a short hall, and he opened the door for her, stood by holding it and watching her face as she stepped inside.
Okay, crazy boy, what he considered messy, to her looked spring cleaned. She wasn’t a slob naturally, but since Lana had come to live with her, keeping the house tidy was definitely a full-time job. His apartment had one main room with a Murphy bed that folded into the wall. A cozy kitchen with a small, but gorgeous oak table took up the back wall. The space was clean, organized, and simple but maybe his life required that.
He guided her all the way inside with light fingertips on the small of her back, but then let his hand fall away from her within moments, and staggering disappointment washed over her. She really had to get a grip or she would send him running for the hills. Or mountains? Wherever wolves ran away to.
“Here.” Greyson dug through a well-made oak chest of drawers that matched his table, and when he turned back to her, a dry pair of comfortable looking clothes lay in his hands. “I can throw yours in the dryer if you want me to. Uh, the bathroom is right through that door,” he said, pointing.
“Okay, thanks. Um, Greyson?” she said, turning at the bathroom doorway.
“You can call me Grey if you want.” He cleared his throat and leaned on the dresser, hands shoved deep into his black hoodie pocket, hair hanging in wet waves down the sides of his face. Was that a blush in his cheeks? Softer, he said, “People close to me just call me Grey.”
And oooh how that sent the butterflies to swarming in her stomach. It was a tiny gift. A statement that he thought she was close to him. Close enough to call him by the name he preferred.
“Grey,” she repeated softly. “I like your name.”
“What were you going to ask a second ago?”
“Uuuuuhhh…” Will you marry me? She swallowed hard and wracked her brain for the correct question. “Oh yeah! Your furniture is really nice.” She gestured to the table. “I’ve been looking for a table like that for a while but haven’t been able to find one even close to that nice. Where did you get it?”
His eyes sparked when he looked at the table. “You like the color?”
“Yes, the stain and the wood grain are just beautiful. And the character in the legs of it. I love everything about it. It’s the perfect mix of simple elegance, and also kind of…chunky, and strong. If that makes sense. I mean, I bet even you could lay on there and it wouldn’t even creak.” And that’s when the vision of her laying on top of him on the chunky table hit her like a motherfreakin’ avalanche, and now it was her turn to blush. Her cheeks were on fire! “But you know, I don’t even know why anyone would lay on a table. I’m gonna change now.”
“You like the wood? You like oak?” he asked quickly before she could disappear into the bathroom.
“Love it,” she said, staring at the ground to hide the red in her cheeks.
“I’ll make it for you.”
“What?” she yelped, jerking her gaze to his bright gold eyes.
“I’ll make you one like that. A similar one, but one that reminds me more of you.”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold the phone. You made that?” she asked, jamming her finger at the table.
“Yup.”
Well knock her over with a damn feather. Now she was seeing it in a whole new light. “And that?” she asked, pointing to the dresser.”
He laughed, a rich sound and scratched his short beard with his thumb, then nodded. “Yes,” he answered quietly.
“I’ll pay you! Those are gorgeous pieces. You can make those? Oh my God, I already asked that. You just surprised me.” In the best way. A man who could build. How could Grey get any hotter? “That’s…that’s…” she cleared her throat. “That’s very attractive,” she muttered before she spun around and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her because she was way too chicken to see his face after she told him he was attractive.
Tits deep in her crush on Grey now, Morgan turned to the mirror and witnessed the horror of what she looked like. Her heart sank into the puddle forming underneath her on the linoleum floor. Her dark hair was plastered to her face like it needed a hug and her black bra was screaming out from under that soaking wet white t-shirt that she was definitely scandalous. At least she hadn’t worn eye make-up this morning, so no runny mascara, but on the other hand—she hadn’t worn eye make-up this morning. She looked like queen of the zombie apocalypse.
Should she let him dry the bra and flop freely around for a while under his shirt, or risk the sopping thing making booby-shaped water stains against his borrowed T-shirt? Goodness, this was about to get embarrassing. Titty bouncing it was, because the water stains would be even more embarrassing. She changed in a hurry and only sniffed his clothes twice. Smelled good.
The door stuck on her way out, and she had to rough it up a little, throw her shoulder against it. It made a sticky-paint sound at her escape. Grey stood before her, pulling on a pair of Levi jeans, half naked and fully delectable-looking. She froze. He had no shirt on. He had an eight pack. Eight. Like…eight squares of muscle that made her want to shrink herself, and sleep in between them like a
pervy psycho.
He made no move to hurry and dress. Just finished pulling the jeans up, buttoned them and let them settle loosely around his waist. The hard muscles of his perfectly defined chest delved into the ripped planes of his abdomen. His arms looked really damn good too. Biceps, yes, shoulders like boulders, triceps she wanted to poke... She clacked her mouth closed with an audible click, and he graced her with a devilish, crooked smile that nearly melted her into a rain puddle to match the one she’d ever-so-thoughtfully left on his bathroom floor. Spontaneous ovulation. That was what was happening here.
As he slid a forest green cotton shirt over his head and pulled it down, he covered thin red scratches crisscrossing his torso. Scratches? Why would he have scratches on his skin? Unless…
The blood drained from her face, leaving her cheeks cold. Maybe a woman made those. The thought of another’s nails on his skin made her stomach queasy. She was being ridiculous. She didn’t have any claim on him so why did the thought of him with another woman affect her so much? Okay, she should just ask, and get it over with. If he had a lady, she needed to back off right now. “Where did you get your scratches?”
“On my chest?”
“Yes.”
He frowned and canted his head like a curious animal. Then he sniffed the air. “You’re upset.”
She didn’t know what to say. She was a little upset and there was no use denying it.
“They aren’t scratches. They’re scars,” he explained softly. “I have a pack, sort of, and we all play rough when we run. These scars will go away. I only got them yesterday so they’re still fresh. I heal fast.”
Okay, that didn’t answer her question as thoroughly as she’d hoped.
