Frayed Obsession, page 15
I don’t trust him either, but I doubt he’d go against Sebastian just to hurt me.
I hope.
Easton leans in—close enough I can see the gold flecks in his green eyes. “I’m going to find out everything about you and who you work for. We’ll see how long your deal holds after that.”
Swallowing hard, it takes everything in me to keep my gaze from straying to the panels of the wardrobe.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you both what I know,” I say, surprised at how calm my voice sounds. But I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it up. “Shouldn’t you be looking for the man who killed Sebastian’s parents?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t stick around, but his scathing stare tells me I hit a nerve.
Easton’s eyes bounce between mine, searching for something. The truth, maybe?
When he doesn’t find what he wants, his jaw clenches before he holds up his hand, the few photos I had left in my bag grasped tight between his fingers. “This better be the fucking last of these.” He steps past me, shoulder brushing mine. But instead of leaving, he stops beside me in the doorway, pinning me with his stare. “And don’t think we didn’t see your little breakfast date down there,” he says before his heavy steps echo down the corridor as he leaves.
I don’t relax until I’m sure he’s gone, sagging against the door jamb behind me. It only lasts a second before I sprint across the room, wincing at the pain it causes.
Dragging the chair out of the way, I push the panel to open the wardrobe door and reach for the top shelf. Standing on my toes, I stretch my arm as far as it will go, feeling around in the blanket until my fingers touch the familiar leather.
Thank God.
A rush of breath escapes me in relief that it’s still where I left it. I collapse into the chair, leaving the journal where it is, knowing it’s for the best.
Shadow comes straight for me when Mason returns with him from his afternoon break. I haven’t forgotten how I held onto him earlier, and when he looks up at me with those big eyes, I reach my hand out. Unable to keep the small tremble from my fingers, I stop shy of his face, but he wastes no time bumping my hand with his nose.
The contact causes me to flinch, but I force myself to keep my arm outstretched. It’s easy to grab him when I’m scared, but I’m still working on this casual contact, though I’m getting better considering where I started.
“He likes you,” Mason says, and my gaze shifts to him as he stops behind Shadow.
I hold my hand there for another moment before I pull it away and rest it in my lap.
His brows draw together. “Are you okay?”
The smile I try to offer him must fall flat if his expression is anything to go by.
I’m still rattled from Easton’s visit, and the question slips out before I can think. “Can anyone get up here?”
“To the penthouse?” He pauses. “No. Only approved persons can access this floor without explicit approval from Mr. Reed.”
“Approved persons?”
“Besides Mr. Reed, only two people have access. His assistant, Miss Lauren Hall, and Mr. Easton Woods.”
I exhale a relieved breath. I can deal with Easton for the most part if the need arises.
“What’s going on, Grace?” he asks softly.
“It’s nothing. I was just curious.” I try for another smile.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Grace.” He sighs, and not for the first time, I get the sense Mason sees far more than he lets on. “But if you ever need help or just someone to talk to, please call me,” he says, pulling a card from his pocket and holding it out to me.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I take the card from his outstretched hand. “Why?” I ask, and my voice shakes, almost giving away my true emotions.
His eyes soften, and I know he understands the question. “She would have been close to your age now, my daughter.” He smiles, but it’s overshadowed by a deep sadness. “And I would want someone to look out for her if I couldn’t be there to do it myself.”
How could he know?
I avert my gaze as tears threaten to fall for the second time today, but I refuse to let them. My dad’s face fills my mind, and I can’t help but recognise the same kindheartedness between him and the man before me.
Maybe I’m just projecting the fatherly qualities I’ve missed for so long onto the first man who shows me kindness, but I want to tell Mason.
Everything in me tells me to trust him, but…
I can’t risk it.
You know what happens.
An image of Mason laying lifeless on the ground, his throat gaping open, and his blood pooling around him flashes in front of me. My body jolts, and I have to swallow the vomit that tries to crawl up my throat. No, not Mason.
Blood already covers my hands, and telling Mason will only put him in danger.
I can’t do it.
My insides feel like they’re pulling in different directions, and I grasp the card tight in my hand. Waiting until my voice is close to normal, I offer him a thank you, not bothering to mention I don’t have a phone to call him on, even if I wanted to.
Mason accepts my response, no matter how meagre, and doesn’t push for anything more. He stays for a few more minutes and even sets up the television with the program he mentioned earlier before heading back to work.
I aimlessly flick through all the new shows I have to choose from, but I feel too restless to stay seated.
I need to do something.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sebastian
Easton barges into my office for the second time today, and he seems even more pissed off than he was when he dropped me back here after our failed venture this morning. But unlike earlier, he doesn’t greet me with a potential lead or anything. Instead, he storms straight to my desk and slaps his hand onto the mahogany surface right in front of me.
What Easton did at that bastard’s house still leaves a sour taste in my mouth, and I glower at his dramatic display. If it weren’t for Easton, the guy would already be ten feet under because anything less than that would be too close to the fucking surface.
“Tell me again how she’s not fucking up to something. She needs to go, Sebastian,” he says, his voice growing darker with each word as he rips his hand away, sending several photographs scattering across the desk. The photographs look similar to the ones on Grace’s camera card. Not the ones I sneak glances at whenever I’m on my laptop, but the ones she’d taken while stalking me.
“We’ve already seen these,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, so I don’t reach for any of them, more for the sake of not giving him a reaction because I’m still fuming with annoyance at him.
East bristles at my disinterested response. A sense of satisfaction rolls through me for getting under his skin. “She was hiding them in her bag, Sebastian! What the fuck else is she hiding?”
That gets my attention. “What do you mean they were in her bag? How did you get them?” His green eyes spark with defiance, and I push up from my chair in one swift movement, planting my hands on the desk. “How the fuck did you get the photos, East?” I ask, leaning over the desk and bringing myself closer to him.
“It doesn’t matter how! They’re fucking here now.” He throws his hands up to extenuate his point, and a bandage shows around his bicep as his short-sleeve shifts with the movement.
“What did you do to her?” The thought of Easton hurting Grace sends a pang of alarm through me, but I don’t let any of it show through my cold exterior. East isn’t downright malicious, but he’s also not a saint by any standards. He has no idea about the encounters I’ve had with her or the thoughts that perforate my mind all damn day and night. Visions of sucking her timid tongue into my mouth. Images of her underneath me, on top of me. Who the hell knows what he’d do if he knew.
Easton rears back at my question like he doesn’t quite recognise who he’s talking to. “Why do you give a shit what happens to her?”
It’s not that it isn’t suspicious that she still has photos of me, but clearly, they’re part of the stash she had when we found her. Since she’s been in the penthouse, I haven’t had any inklings that she’s out to get me. Does she have secrets? Yes, and I want to get to the bottom of each one, but my gut tells me she isn’t about to attack me in my sleep.
Or do you only feel that way because you want to draw every ounce of pleasure she’s capable of out of her sweet lips and drink it down like a shot of ecstasy? Fuck.
“I don’t.” The lie burns my tongue, and I grab my phone from the desk before brushing past Easton and leaving the office. I definitely do not think about the girl who’s stolen my sanity waiting for me when I return to the penthouse.
Shadow greets me when I enter the penthouse like he does every night, but the scent of food cooking distracts me. I made sure we had groceries, but as far as I know, neither of us has actually cooked a meal.
I scratch Shadow’s head and round the corner into the kitchen. Grace stands in front of the stove, her back to me. A heavy book sits open on the bench by the stove, and she flicks the page over while something sizzles in a frying pan. Her long hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and she wears her usual plain t-shirt and pair of jeans that hug all of her subtle curves.
I frown when I realise I’ve actually never seen her wear something else, apart from the knitted jumper she’s not wearing at the moment.
How much could she have fit in that backpack?
Whilst trying to keep my distance from her, it feels like I’ve missed something important, and I make a mental note to ask her about it.
After I place my keys on the end of the island bench, I clear my throat.
Grace spins around, and a nervous smile crosses her face. “I found this and thought I would make dinner. I hope that’s okay.” She gestures to the thick book on the bench I now realise is a cookbook. “I wasn’t sure when you were coming back, so I was going to leave you a plate. But now that you’re here…”
Is she asking me to have dinner with her?
I can’t deny I’m drawn to Grace. It’s the reason I’ve been spending more time in the penthouse, but I also don’t trust myself around her. The closer I am to her, the stronger the pull, so I keep as much distance between us as I can, which usually means spending half the night in my office. Not that it’s much different than if I were to stay at work like I usually do.
What happened between her and Easton? He never actually said if they had an altercation. Would she tell me if she was hurt? I don’t see how Easton could have gotten to her bag without her knowing, but she seems unharmed, and I let out a relieved breath.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask instead.
“No, it’s almost done. Thank you,” Grace says, and after a moment, she returns to what she was doing.
My stare lingers a while longer before I pull myself away and leave Grace in the kitchen to finish up. I take the opportunity to set about getting Shadow his dinner. It’s earlier than he normally eats, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit.
By the time I get back to the kitchen, Grace is putting the final touches on the meal. Her eyes meet mine as soon as she senses my presence, and she seems to hesitate before speaking.
“I can put the plate in the refrigerator for later if you’re not hungry,” she says, but I catch a hint of disappointment in her voice.
I’ve been an asshole.
I might have had good reason not to be a gracious host, but for the life of me, I can’t see the enemy she’s meant to be, which only serves to frustrate me.
That and the damn kiss complicates everything.
At the very least, I should take the meal to my office, seeing as she went to all the effort to cook for us. For me, despite how shit I’ve treated her this past week.
But I’m tired of hiding away.
“No need, I’m starving,” I say and grab the pitcher of water from the refrigerator, along with two glasses, and take them to the dining table. Grace follows my movement, her mouth dropping open as if I’ve done the exact opposite of what she expected. She snaps out of it quickly and follows my lead, bringing the meals with her, placing one on the end of the table where I’m standing and the other at the adjacent corner.
Our knees almost touch under the table when we take our seats, and it feels awfully close to some kind of date setup.
Shit, maybe the dining table wasn’t the best idea. I should have stuck to the island bench. I might have had to eat standing, but at least there’d be a two-metre slab of stone between us.
We eat in silence.
Awkward as all hell, silence.
What do you ask your stalker who’s been living in your penthouse all week?
The one you kissed after telling you her mother was dead.
The one who used her tongue to clean sauce off your thumb.
I sneak another glance at her, and my gaze strays directly to her mouth, thinking of all the other places she could put her tongue and those rose lips.
Fuck, don’t think about that.
“How was work?” Grace asks abruptly, and I almost choke on my food.
I clear my throat a couple of times and take a sip of water, all the while trying to clear any thoughts of Grace’s mouth on my body from my mind.
“Are you okay?” she asks, a small frown between her brows.
“Fine,” I say after another sip of water. “Work was okay.”
My response is short, even to my own ears, and from the way Grace seems to close off, I wasn’t the only one to hear it.
I let out a sigh. “Sorry, it’s been a long week. Business is good but busy.” I was going to leave it there. I should have left it there, but the words come out before I can stop them. “We nearly got him…”
“Wha—” she starts, but then her head snaps up. “Ian?” Grace swallows hard, and I gauge her reaction.
When she doesn’t say anything further, I dip my head in a slight nod.
“But you didn’t?” she asks, and I shake my head, no. Grace lets out a breath, but I have no idea what to make of it. Is she relieved? Disappointed? The slight drop in her shoulders has me leaning towards the former, and now I need to know why.
“It’s only a matter of time before we do get the bastard,” I say, but this time, I don’t regret the sharp tone. A few seconds tick by, and I wait for some kind of reaction from her. A show of fear. A shaky breath. Anything to indicate she might be hiding her connection to the man, but there’s nothing. Another few seconds pass before she nods her head twice, but if anything, the only hint of emotion I detect is resignation. Interesting.
“How was your week?” I ask, changing the subject and feeling somewhat guilty that she’s been locked in this penthouse all week.
I haven’t forgotten why she’s here, as Easton seems to believe, and I want answers. But the more time I spend with her, the less likely it seems she had anything to do with my parents’ murder.
“Nothing to complain about,” she says, and that answers my question as to whether she’s going to mention Easton’s visit. I contemplate bringing it up, but honestly, I’ve had enough of him today, and I’d rather not spend any more time on it. “I’ll clean these up.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and I can’t help but compare it to the blinding smile she gave me the same night I kissed her.
“No. Let me.” I place my hand on hers to stop her from doing anything further. “Thank you for dinner,” I say.
Her cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, and this time, her smile is genuine. Not as grand as the one imprinted in my mind but beautiful all the same. I want all her smiles—every last one. I’m just not sure how to get them.
Collecting our plates, I take them to the kitchen and rinse them off before placing them in the sink.
“Thank you.”
The soft words have me twisting in their direction, and I come chest to chest with Grace as she places our water glasses on the bench.
“For what?’ I ask, wracking my brain for anything I could have done that would warrant the comment. My eyes flick between hers, and from the depth of her stare, I know it’s nothing as simple as clearing the table.
“For giving me a chance when you could have turned me in.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I say, my voice thick. It was true at the time. I didn’t do it for her. But something tells me if I had to make the same choice again, knowing everything I do now—which is still fuck all—that statement wouldn’t be so true anymore.
“It doesn’t matter,” she states.
Loose hair falls from her braid, framing her face, and I can’t help but reach for it, pushing it back from her eyes. My hand settles on her cheek, and she leans into it, almost instinctively.
It feels like there’s an invisible rope around my chest, and whenever I’m near her, something tugs on the end, drawing me to her. A gravitational pull I’m no longer sure I have a chance of denying.
Her dark blue eyes hold so much, too much, for someone her age.
“How old are you?” I ask the question that’s filtered through my mind several times over the last week.
Grace’s mouth opens but closes again without a word. Looking away, her brows pull together in thought before she brings her eyes back to me. “Twenty,” she says, but there’s a sad quality to her voice.
The scar above her eyebrow steals my focus, and I run my thumb over it. The rope pulls tighter, and it takes everything in me not to fall completely into her. “Who are you running from?” There’s more to her story, and I wish she’d fucking tell me what it is. I should care that she’s almost ten years younger than me. I should care about a lot of things. But fuck, I hate myself that I don’t.
