Page 32 of Shades of Ruin

He closes the distance between us, and suddenly he’s a little too close. Before I can react, his hands are on my shoulders, his thumbs rubbing soft circles that he must think are comforting—but they feel like knives peeling apart my skin one scrape at a time. I’m usually better at handling the sudden panic, but it catches me off guard when my inner stability is already thrown off balance to begin with.

My throat feels tight, choking out my ability to tell him to stop. He’s being friendly. I know there’s nothing threatening inthe way he’s touching me. But my entire body freezes as my heart starts to pound. And I think I might be sick.

“I like you, Angélica. You’re a great chef. And I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us in the kitchen.”

I can barely hear anything over the blood roaring in my ears. My skin is prickly and cold, and my vision fades into fuzzy little flickers of light.

“Liam,” a voice calls. I don’t think it’s mine, but I can’t be certain.

“Liam, get your fucking hands off her. She can’t breathe.” The deep voice is clearer now, familiar. I blink open my eyes to find crystalline blue ones staring down at me. Liam’s hands are gone. Strong, harsh fingers are biting into my shoulders and shaking me back into my body.

“There you are, angel,” he rumbles, his voice so low that Liam can’t hear. “Lost you for a minute.”

“I’m sorry,” I gasp as embarrassment floods my body. I’ve not blacked out like that in years. I thought I’d gotten past it, but I suppose my brokenness still follows me around like a shadow.

“Don’t apologize,” Greyson chides, his tone turning stern. His eyes flash up to Liam, and that’s when I realize we’re both on the floor, Greyson’s arms wrapped around me. I wish I could tuck my head against his shoulder and disappear altogether.

“Not that I should have to explain this to you, but you shouldn’t be touching your coworkers. Ever,” Greyson snarls, hammering Liam with a glare.

“I didn’t mean?—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you did or didn’t mean. It has nothing to do withyou, so keep your hands to your fucking self.”

I blink up at Greyson, reeling from his unexpected defense. I’ve always borne the blame for my personal weaknesses. If I panic when someone touches me, it’s my fault for being damaged. It never even occurred to me to think of touch assomething being donetome, rather than something I brought upon myself. And he’s the first one to make me feel some version of normal in spite of being wired differently from most people.

Of course, the hypocrisy of Greyson’s lecture doesn’t escape me. He touches me without permission too—he just does it the way I like.

“I’m sorry, chef.” Liam looks crestfallen, his eyes fixed on the floor as Greyson helps me get to my feet.

“You can apologize to Flores for being grossly unprofessional,” Greyson snaps, the intensity of his expression unfaded.

“Sorry, Flores.” Even though his apology is essentially being forced at knifepoint, I can tell that he means it.

“It’s okay. No harm done.” I shoot him a smile that probably looks a little flimsy, but it’s the best I can muster at the moment.

“Back to the kitchen, Liam. We’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, chef.” With an apologetic glance over his shoulder, Liam leaves.

Greyson turns his full attention on me, his eyes blazing with an intensity that promises destruction—his or mine, I can’t tell yet. “I leave you unattended for a few hours and return to find you in a closet with an underling’s hands all over you,” he growls.

“That’s not what happened, and you know it,” I retort, flashing him a half-hearted glare.

“Yes, I know,” he admits before clenching his jaw. “Still doesn't mean I liked it.”

I didn’t either, but I don’t want to focus on what happened. Eager to remove the spotlight from myself, I divert to the upheaval that drew him away from me in the first place. “So, are you a murderer now?” I ask, my words more casual than I actually feel.

Just like this morning, his expression gives away nothing. “Not this time, much to the disappointment of Chicago PD.”

I turn over his response in my head, considering all the waysitdoesn’tsound like a confession of innocence. “And—the other times?” I hazard.

The smallest of smiles cracks at the corners of his mouth. “Hmm, someone’s feeling brave tonight.”

“I lost a lot of oxygen to the brain,” I offer in my own defense, not sure I’m willing to risk a punishment from him at the moment. “I’m basically high right now.”

His smile grows wider. “I suppose I won’t hold it against you then.”

“Well?” I ask, not willing to drop the matter until he gives me an answer. A real answer.

---