Page 63 of Like Grim Death: Part One
“Yeah.” I don’t think Natalie and Atlas are doing well, but I keep that to myself.
“Her brother’s name is Samson.” My breath catches as I remember that name he spoke on his call to Elijah last night. “Orwas.His body ended up in a field at Sanctum.”
My eyes widen and I hunch my elbows in toward my core, panic zipping up my belly.“What? When?”Thoughts of Atlas, how he might take the news, it overwhelms me. I’ve had few friends, and he probably doesn’t even consider me one, but even after his weird behavior last night, I kind of adore him. Automatically, I want to check in.“Who killed him? Why?”
“It was Monday night. I didn’t want to…worry you.” He seems to choose each word carefully, like he’s laying traps with every one.Two nights ago, and he just told me.But I can’t be mad he’s keeping things to himself when I’m doing far worse. “And if I knew why, baby, I’d tell you.”
I see his shadow beyond the pane of glass, hear his footsteps coming closer. His answers don’t reassure me, and I can only imagine how Atlas is feeling. Is that why he was so aggressive last night?
I swipe a hand down my face, clearing my eyes, then I reach for the metal tap, and turn off the water. A moment later, Mav opens the door, steam trailing out, cold air greeting me and causing my entire body to erupt with goosebumps.
He stands there for a second, hood pulled over his head, baby blue eyes trailing down my body. He observes me with unrestrained lust, his pupils dilated as his nostrils flare. His wide, soft lips press together, then he reaches outside the shower door, where I can’t see, and pulls out a large, white fluffy towel from the built-in shelves.
He jerks his chin, stepping back, indicating the dark tiles at his feet. “Come here.”
I step out, still hugging myself, thankful for the fact one of the candles—set along the onyx marble ledge of our clawfoot tub at his back—has already gone out, the scent of vanilla and strawberries heavy in the room.
He wraps the towel around my body, and it hits at my ankles, oversized as it is. It smells good, the laundry detergent I use organic but scented with essential oils. I got used to using a limitless credit card after his many attempts to assuage my guilt at spending his money.“Our money now,”he said.
He spins me around, so my back is to his chest, his arms banding over me to pull me to him.
His mouth comes to my ear. “You’re fucking perfect,” he whispers, and my eyes flutter closed. He kisses me gently, on my lobe, causing me to shiver from more than the cold. “Listen to me, okay? I want to keep you safe.”
Warmth knots in my belly, spiraling upward, into my chest. I feel sleepy and loved. I don’t want to hold onto these secrets anymore. I want to let it go.Let it go.
But there’s far too much to lose and the guilt zips through me, sewing my mouth closed.
He kisses the side of my neck, and I tilt my head to the side, giving him better access. He laughs boyishly against my wet skin, then inhales, taking in my scent, exchanging it with the toothpaste mint of his breath. “I’m not going to fuck you again. You need to sleep. But fuck, do I want to.”
He straightens and steers me by my shoulders toward the bathroom door, into the darkness of our bedroom. He helps me dress in the night, toweling off my body with reverence, opposite to how we fucked this morning.
When everything is done, and my head is lying on his chest in bed, his arm around my back, the covers pulled up high, I let myself drift off into oblivion.
I let myself pretend I deserve all of this.
“So,someone gets murdered, and we just don’t care?” I sweep my gaze over the decorations on Corpus Ave. Skeletons dancing in trees, spiderwebs lining our bushes, everything lit with forefront lights, combined with neon blue and purple, depending on the home. Night has fallen early, a chilly breeze rolls through as I grip my fingers tighter around the padded bar of Rain’s sleek black stroller. He’s bundled in lilac blankets, a lime green baby hat perched on his sweet head.
Sweet, but he also kind of looks like a lumpy pumpkin in that way babies do.
Ezra breaks away from our group walk, spinning and holding up aHalloweentumbler, his arms stretched wide, a gesture to the street. “Sid,” he says, his voice deep and full of drunken amusement.“Take a minute to soak this shit up.”
I stop pushing the stroller on our loop back around the neighborhood, Brooklin on one side of me, Lucifer the other, hovering just behind me. Cain, Maverick, and Ella stop too, but since Mav saw the bruise two nights ago—even though he didn’t bring it up when he randomly called me and I was up feeding Rain—he’s kept his distance, his arm looped through Ella’s and a scowl on his face anytime his eyes shoot to Lucifer. He has bruises around the side of his head he said were none of our business, but I wonder if Ella clocked him.
Thinking of it almost makes me want to laugh. It feels kind of nice, being out here with everyone.
We try to do these walks once a week, on Thursdays. Our own ritual.Fuck you, Council.
I nod, taking in the sheer number of pumpkins lining the paved, circular driveways. At our back, Ezra’s house has a glowing pumpkin in every window.And there’re a lot of fucking windows.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m taking it in.” I nod my head, feigning being impressed, although secretly, I do love it. “It’s great.”
The only house without decorations—or at least, none I can see—is the one to my right. Nothing but dark shrubs there, a driveway half-hidden by forests. It’s hard to even make out the roof of Atlas’s house though I know it’s as big as every other home on our street.
A few yellow and red leaves skitter along the road, and Lucifer wraps his arm around me, pulling me close, one hand coming over mine on the stroller. We’re both wearing fingerless skeleton gloves, and I tilt my head, leaning back against his chest as I look up at him.
He’s smiling, but he’s watching Ezra. Cain separates us from Maverick and Ella, and Brooklin has a lot of distance from her brother too. They don’t speak.
Her shoulder bumps mine as she giggles at Ezra, dropping his hands but drinking from his tumbler. I know it’s not water in there, but no one calls him out on it. He turns to face our home, at the end of the street, tilting his head. In a deep burgundy hoodie that clings to his broad shoulders, and dark gray joggers, he looks hot as hell. I mean, I’m not checking out his ass or anything, but every one of my husband’s brothers are in stupidly good shape.
