Page 2 of Bound to the Griffin
My lips parted to retort, but I bit the inside of my cheek and swallowed the words. I wanted to say something snappy, something biting. Maybe point out how little he looked like your average small-town shopkeep himself, with his tailored clothes and predator’s poise. But I kept it to myself. Picking a fight on my first day wouldn’t earn me any bread. Literally or figuratively.
“So,” I said instead, pulling out my little notebook and flipping to my shopping list, the pages already smudged from nervous fingers. “Do you have all of this? Any of this?” I’d settle for primer and paint; I’d be infinitely happy if he had any mold killer, and a bag of plaster for me to mix.
He barely spared it a glance. “No.” No? That was it? No explanation, no alternatives, no polite regret? I stared down at the list. Half of it I could see on the shelves behind him. My heart sank like a stone through water. He didn’t even want my business. So that’s how it was?
“Oh.” My voice came out small and breathy. “Okay, then.” I turned slowly, my fingers curling tightly around the notebook, my pulse pounding in my ears with a fresh wave of despair. If I couldn’t even buy cleaning supplies here, I’d have to drive to the next town over, and who knew how far that was? My car wasn’t exactly snow-queen-worthy. How long would it take to get back? How much money would I have to waste on gas for every little thing?
The bell over the door jingled again. The shopkeeper’s eyes flicked past me, and something shifted in the air. I turned, too, blinking against the sudden draft that swept through the door.
The man who stepped inside was... arresting. Towering, blond, and broad-shouldered, he filled the doorway like a storm cloud rolling in. His coat was thick and utilitarian—army green—with a sheriff’s badge catching the light at his chest. A fine dusting of snow clung to his shoulders and boots, and the air seemed to sharpen with his presence. My breath caught, my heart leaping like it recognized something I didn’t have words for.
He was handsome, fiercely so. Not in the polished, icy way the shopkeeper behind me was, but with the kind of rugged grace that felt carved from stone and wind. His face was all hard lines and purpose: his jaw square, his eyes the color of polished amber, sharp and chiseled, like an eagle was staring out of that gaze. Those eyes met mine for half a second, then narrowed—hostile, suspicious.
Of course, that was the standard greeting here; my gut clenched. I half expected him to pull out a pair of cuffs and arrest me for existing, to drag me out of town. For some strange reason, his response was the most hurtful yet. Maybe because it came so fast on the heels of the last rejection, and I was drowning in debt and self-flagellation.
Then the strangest thing happened. His expression shifted, it was only slightly, but it was enough. The stern line of his brow relaxed, the tight set of his jaw loosened, and his gaze softened; not with friendliness, exactly, but it was definitely something warmer.
And then—oh God—came the scent. It hit me like a wave: crisp wind through pine needles, scorched air before a lightning strike, and something wilder beneath that I couldn’t name. My knees went weak. My heart stuttered in my chest. He stepped farther into the store, and I couldn’t help the way I leaned slightly toward him, like a sunflower tracking the sun.
When he reached the counter, he didn’t look at me. His presence was larger than life, shoulders taking up way too much space, his body towering over mine. Yet I didn’t feel threatened, didn’t feel like he was moving to intimidate, not me, at least. He glared at the icy-cold shopkeeper.
“What’s going on here, Luther?” His voice was gravelly, low, and commanding, the kind of voice people listened to without question. He leaned on the polished counter with one elbow, and snow drifted down from his hair and shoulders, dancing through the air around him like it was his own personal snowstorm. Only softer, the ice crystals catching the light in an ethereal, magical fashion.
Luther didn’t flinch from that glare, but something about him coiled tighter, like a snake ready to strike. “Just making conversation with our new arrival,” he said with a faint sneer. His eyebrow lifted as if to communicate something privately with the sheriff, but whatever it was, this handsome arrival didn’t pick up on it.
The sheriff turned to me then, and for the second time, our eyes met. The weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear, like it saw too much, too quickly. There was no malice in it, just intensity. “Everything all right, Miss Avery?” he asked, his voicegentle in comparison. It was the first friendly voice I’d heard since coming here all day.
I blinked, heart doing somersaults. “Yes, I think so. Just... trying to settle in.” The moment felt a little like something out of a dream, like the super-popular guy had just singled me out.
He gave a slow nod, then turned back to Luther with another glare, firm and full of reprimand. “She needs supplies. Why don’t you try being a neighbor for once?” Hope surged in my chest. If I could get the supplies I needed after all… I wouldn’t have to make a dangerous trip on snowy roads, wouldn’t have to spend extra money on gas I couldn’t afford.
Luther’s mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Of course, Sheriff.” That reply was sharp enough to cut, and for some reason, it made the sheriff grin as if he were amused. Like they were havingfun.“Might I remind you of our last town hall meeting?” the shopkeeper added. That was more than an eyebrow nudge to remind the sheriff, that was a blatant reference. Had they discussed how to treat me before I arrived? Were theytryingto run me out?
The sheriff didn’t respond, but his hand lowered, snatched the notebook with my shopping list from my numb fingers, and plunked it firmly down on the counter. “Just get her the supplies, leech,” he said. Then he turned a devastating grin on me, all straight white teeth and dimpled cheeks. “The name’s Jackson, ma’am. Welcome to Hillcrest Hollow.”
Chapter 2
Jackson
The wind was biting sharply up here, cold enough to freeze my damn feathers stiff. I circled low once over the north ridge, scanning the tree line. No smoke. No fresh tracks. Not even Arden’s lumpy silhouette lumbering around like he usually did near his moss-coated hovel. Stubborn old troll. He’d better not have frozen his big stone ass to the riverbank again.
I angled a wing and let the wind carry me toward the narrow stretch of woods that cradled the rickety North Bridge, the one Arden kept promising he’d reinforce and never damn well did. The snowfall from two days back had been heavy enough that I couldn’t let it slide without checking. The last thing I needed was someone crashing through the planks and getting swept downstream. Again.
When I spotted the sagging boards and a suspiciously crooked beam, I gave a warning screech, dipped lower, and flared my wings hard enough to kick up a gust that scattered snow from the pine boughs below.
I landed in a spray of powder and shifted mid-step, feathers receding, claws snapping into boots. My tan pants were already damp from the knee down, and I hadn’t even made it back to town. I gave the bridge a look that would’ve scared sense into a less stubborn structure.
“One more week,” I muttered, brushing snow off my uniform jacket, the thick coat warm and, thankfully, waterproof. “And I'm tearing you down myself.”
I didn’t hold out much hope. Arden would find some reason to complain. Trolls hated it when anyone touched their bridges. This one hated snow even more. I walked to the edge of the bridge but didn’t step onto it. The road hadn’t been plowed. Though Gregory often took care of that, likely, the minotaur was too wrapped up in his mate right now to care.
The bridge didn’t look safe enough to cross, even on foot. I peered through the hole the crooked beam had created, and there he was: Arden, sitting on the bank below the bridge beside the frozen water, bundled up tighter than I was, his nose pink from the cold. He gave me a sullen look that said he’d heard my comment about tearing down the bridge. Then he shook out his shaggy hair and rose agilely to his feet, slipping from beneath the bridge before his head could strike the wood.
“I’m fine,” he rumbled, his arms crossing over his massive chest. Even in his human form, he was a big man, but I was no delicate flower either, and currently, I stood on the embankment above him. Tilting my head down, I gave him my best drill master stare, and I saw his mouth twitch into a half smile. “Seriously, Jackson. I’m good. Plenty of supplies, plenty of firewood, and a pile of good books.”
That should hold him, so I gave in and stepped back. Arden leaped onto the bank, his gaze flicking to the frozen stream once, with a mournful expression. He loved to fish, and he was probably missing the task. “Fix the bridge,” I said to him, and I pointed at the crooked beam, which had shifted planks enough toreallymake it dangerous. He got a stubborn look on his face, so I stared him down, and he relented with a sigh.
I shifted without waiting to see if he wanted more small talk—Arden wasn’t a big speaker anyway—and I was feeling an odd sense of urgency to complete my task. Digging my lion paws deep into the snow, I launched into the air with a squawk, beating my wings to gain enough lift to clear the trees. I circled Arden once and was satisfied when he waved before turning back to the moss- and now snow-covered little home. I didn’t leave until I was satisfied he was picking up his tools to begin the required repair work.
