Page 104 of Violent Possession
“It’s... where you stay?” he says, staring at the card.
“At the moment.”
“And you’re giving me this,” he says, almost a question, unable to hide his astonishment. “The keys to your house.”
“It’s not myhouse,” I correct him, immediately. “But I’m sure Vasily doesn’t have eyes there. It’s the safest and the most stupidly risky thing I could do. I’m betting on my reading of you, Griffin.”
He looks at the card again, then at me.
“Are you going to lock me in there too?” he scoffs with a half-smile, but his eyes are clear.
“No,” I say. “Inside, there’s a secure terminal. You’ll have access to the tower’s perimeter cameras and other data I deem necessary. You won’t be blind.”
He pauses and looks at me. There’s a spark in his gaze, a threat, a question that will never be asked aloud. And before I can prepare myself, he kisses me. His tongue invades my mouth, and there’s no possible defense.
There’s a crackle of understanding that this is a pact. A mutual recognition that we are both fucked in a way that can only be expressed through violence or a precarious fusion of skin.
When his hand of flesh and bone grabs my collar, I realize the metal one hovers, undecided, reverent, near my face. A touch, if it were allowed. But he pulls his face back, his eyes moist and fulminating, his breath ragged.
“Just to remember whose side I’m on,” he whispers, deeper than usual.
He tries to pull away, to have the last word, but I give him no space. I grab the back of his neck firmly, sink my fingers into his scalp, and return the kiss with methodical violence; a slow invasion until he yields and his mouth trembles against mine.
I push him against the nearest wall with my body, and only then does he let the carbon fiber hand rest, hesitantly, on my face. The kiss lengthens, transforms, and when I pull away, his eyes are half-closed and his face is red. The smile that emerges is one of pure defiance.
He breaths heavily and his sarcasm is lost somewhere.
“So...” he begins, his voice a little unsteady. “See you at dinner?”
The question is so absurdly domestic that it almost makes me laugh for real.
“Maybe,” I reply.
I turn, leaving him at the door of his former captivity.
“And don’t walk too much,” I say over my shoulder. “You took a bullet and you’re still limping, you need to rest.”
“Okay,mom.”
A spasm pulls at my mouth. I smile at nothing as I leave him with the set of proofs that I now give him a piece of my own freedom, at least enough for him to have somewhere to run.
Every time I tried to control Griffin, he allowed me to command him while simultaneously slipping through my fingers, like smoke, like possibility.
I never truly had him, and I never will. The most I can manage is to negotiate intervals of proximity and fire, hopingthey don’t burn down the whole world before they swallow us whole.
CHAPTER 7
AM I MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?
GRIFFIN
I’M TELLING YOU IT WAS THE MALAKOVS
IT’S A FUCKING COINCIDENCE THAT THIS HAPPENS RIGHT AFTER YOU GET INVOLVED WITH THEM, DON’T YOU THINK
They’re saying at least ten guys saw a BIG MALAKOV and like five henchmen beating the guy up
in front of EVERYONE
