Page 43 of Shades of Ruin

I’m met with silence, no sign that he even heard me. Another loud thud erupts on the other side of the door. “Greyson?” I call, not sure whether I can risk barging in unannounced. “It’s Angélica. Can I come in?”

No answer.

“Greyson?”

I knock once more as loudly as I can. The sound of glass shattering penetrates the heavy silence. Deciding to risk it, I twist the door handle gently. It’s unlocked. I guess Greyson put faith in his menacing presence to keep people out rather than using the deadbolt on the other side. Bracing myself for what I might find, I push open the door and stride into his office like I have every right to be there.

Everything is in ruins. Papers are scattered over the floor. Books have been thrown in random directions. His desk is tipped over and lying on the wrong side of the room. Frames that used to hang on the walls are smashed, pieces of glass and wood dashed over the marble floor. It looks more like a war zone than an office.

It takes me a moment to find Greyson sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. His black shirt is partially untucked, the buttons at his collar ripped free. His dark hair is unkempt, like he’s tried to tear it out at the roots. And his eyes—his bright, crystalline eyes are haunted and red-rimmed. There are no tear tracks on his face, but I’m almost certain he shed them in this room, alone where no one could see him weep. What would it take to make someone as severe as Chef Greyson cry?

“Don’t come near me,” Greyson says, his voice dead and empty. He doesn’t look up from where he stares at the wall. There’s no sign that he recognizes me at all.

I approach him with the caution you would a wounded animal whose teeth and claws are vicious enough to kill you. Predators are the most dangerous when they feel threatened, and as strongly as I feel about him, there’s no denying that a predator is exactly what he is. “Greyson?” I call hesitantly, keeping my steps small and soft.

“If you don’t want me to destroy you like I’ve destroyed everything else in this room, don’t come any closer, Angélica,” he hisses, the words angry, violent.

He knows it’s me, but that hasn’t softened him in the slightest. He doesn’t want me here. I’m intruding on a private moment—a moment of weakness—and he doesn’t trust me enough when he’s this vulnerable.

Driven toward danger like a moth to a flame, I step closer in spite of his warnings. Without a word, I sink to my knees in front of him, breaking his line of sight. Slowly, his raging blue eyes lift to mine, and the cold furiosity in them sends a shiver racing down my spine.

“What happened?” I ask, needing to know what could have felled the most terrifying man I’ve ever met.

“Sophie died.” His expression reflects everything that the two hollow words don’t. Whoever Sophie was, the loss has broken him into pieces.

I sift through every small detail he’s ever disclosed about his past. It takes a moment for it to click—Sophie was the old Parisian who took him in and taught him how to cook when he first arrived in Paris. He credits her with starting his career. In a way, he feels like everything he is, he owes to her. And now she’s gone.

“Oh Grey, I’m so sorry.” I reach for him, but he jerks away. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, interlocking his fingers like he’s engaging a defensive shield. It’s just another barrier meant to keep me away. “Talk to me,” I plead. This numb, silent version of him is scaring me.

He tears his gaze from mine and looks past me. His rejection hurts more than it should, and I feel my own defenses mount in response. “Why are you running away from me?” I demand, wounded feelings turning my words sharp and accusing. I heave a sigh and try again. “Please tell me what you’re thinking. You’reshutting me out, and I don’t like watching you suffer through this alone. Share it with me. Give me some of the pain and grief. Let me lessen it.”

He doesn’t look at me, but his throat bobs as he swallows hard before answering, “Sophie saved me.”

The fact that he’s willing to talk subdues some of the tension that’s been building in my gut. I remain silent, letting him continue at his own pace.

“After my mother left. After my stepmother died. After everything that happened with my father. After my sister found a better family that didn’t include me. Sophie was the first family that chose me and stayed. She’s always been there for me. For over a decade, she’s been there for every high and low in my life, and she’s supported me through it all. She’s seen all the darkness, and she’s never judged. And now she’s fucking gone.”

I flinch when he picks up a discarded culinary award and hurls it across the room. He’s spiraling, and I need to pull him back. “How did she die?” I ask, bracing for more of his anger.

Greyson scrubs a hand over his face, rubbing at his temples. “Break-in. Some piece of shit trashed her apartment looking for anything worth stealing. Sophie isn’t the type to take anything lying down, so she fought back.” He covers his eyes so I can’t see him break before whispering, “She didn’t make it out.”

Jesús Cristo. “That’s terrible, Grey. To lose her so senselessly. No wonder you’re angry. You have every right to be.” I try to reach for him again, and this time he allows me to rest my hand on his shoulder. “Did they catch the bastard?”

“No,” he snarls, the single word deadly. “Sophie was old school, so she didn’t have any cameras or security on the boulangerie or her apartment above it. I didn’t ask for the gory details, but the police thought whoever did it was blitzed out of their mind. They said the violence was excessive for a break-in. I didn’t ask the solicitor to elaborate.”

“Of course,” I agree with a nod. “You don’t need to hear how your friend died.”

He looks at me, his eyes flashing with icy determination. “I will figure outexactlywhat happened, but I don’t trust the police. They do a shit job on the best of days. I’ll have Ashford investigate and send me everything he can find. And then I’ll hunt down the motherfucker who did it and make him beg for death.”

There’s no escaping the fact that Greyson is a killer—it’s etched deep into his blue eyes. I ignore every instinct that tells me he’s dangerous. I ignore every natural impulse that tells me to run. Instead, I tuck my hand in his and bring it to my chest, letting him feel the beat of my heart as if the steady rhythm will calm him and bring him back to me.

“Revenge won’t bring her back, Grey,” I whisper.

His hand squeezes so tightly around mine that it feels like he might fracture the fragile bones in my fingers. “I need to destroy, angel,” he growls as his hand grips mine even harder. “The call for destruction is singing so loudly in my veins that I can’t hear anything else.”

In an instant, he strikes out and captures my other hand, twisting our bodies so that I fall backwards onto the floor. My head lands with a thud against the hard marble, but I barely recognize the pain of it as Greyson mounts my hips and stretches my arms up above me.

He’s so much bigger than I am, and the weight of him crushing my body into the floor is agonizing. I go still, like a mouse trapped in the strangling coils of a python. And I’m afraid one wrong move may be my last.

---