Vicki Pettersson - The Taken

Yet all she had was herself.

Then Grif rejoined her side. Kit shot him an annoyed glance. Even when he was trying to be sweet, she thought, he was damned contrary. Tucking her arms around her body again, she turned to him. “Not exactly the Kit Craig you’re used to, is it? Don’t worry. The dark mood only hits when someone close to me dies. It’ll pass soon. Until the next time, that is.”

This time his hand closed over her arm when she tried to turn away. With the mere pulse of those fingertips-tensile, she thought, fighter’s hands-he drew her back. But what kept her there was the bruised intensity of his gaze.

Grif cleared his throat. “I don’t have a lot of friends. Those I once counted as close are long gone, but I was never an easy man to know. I was a loner as a kid. I played only in my mind. I chose individual sports over team. That’s how I got into boxing.”

Grif gave his head a little shake, like he hadn’t meant for all of that to spill out. “Anyway, I made sure anyone had to work hard to get to know me. As if my friendship and company is some great gift, right?” He chuckled for them both, but Kit was listening now, and caught the self-consciousness in the way he moved his shoulders.

“Anyway, it’s no coincidence that I married the one woman who did work to get to know me. I mean, when someone looks past the rubble of all your faults, digging to find the good in you, it’s… appreciated.” Grif squinted into the empty meadow. “I asked her once why she didn’t just leave when I was surly or distant or, you know. Too talkative.”

Kit huffed. Was there anyone less talkative than this man? “What’d she say?”

He shrugged, and the accompanying self-consciousness this time was sweet. “She liked my way. She said there was magic in how I moved around the world, my every action so tightly controlled that when I finally did relax-when I turned that energy in her direction-it was like being spotlit.”

He paused a moment before his small smile shifted to a frown. “She also said I was like a lone island that would be there long after the buildings and monuments other men had built turned to dust. She thought it was a compliment, but how could she know? It’s all dust.”

Kit pursed her lips. “I’m sorry… is this your pep talk?”

Grif shrugged.

“That’s it? You’re done?”

“Pretty much.”

Kit was suddenly furious. “Then what’s the point? Why bother living or loving at all? Why set yourself up for inevitable heartache?”

Grif didn’t even change his expression. “Because it’s still worth it.”

Worth it to watch everyone around you die? she wondered, screaming inwardly. Worth it to know you could be next-no telling when or how? Worth it when some asshole could take the gift of free will and turn it into a weapon, a curse?

“You’re wrong,” she said, furiously wiping a rogue tear from her cheek. “I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter at all.”

Then Grif put a hand to her cheek, and the magic he’d referred to before stole the breath from her body. “It always matters, Kit. Didn’t you tell me that?”

“But-”

His fingers stroked her cheeks. “Trust me. Even if you die today, and never step foot on this mudflat again, love always matters.”

She shook her head until his palm dropped away, then immediately wished it back. God, she thought, tears filling her eyes. She didn’t want to want him and she damned well didn’t want it to matter. “I don’t think you understand, Grif. People drop from my life like flies. And I don’t know if I’m just used to it by now or just fucking stupid, but I’ve kept spinning my stories, working hard to live deliberately-in print, in the way I dress, in the actions I take, all the way down to the damned car I drive-like doing all that would give me a say in the whole process. But I don’t have a say in anything, do I?”

He swallowed hard, and she knew she was right. Even the man who pretended to be an angel couldn’t deny that. No one had any say in their fate at all.

This time she was the one to lay a frigid palm over his. “If God wants to smite you dead, He can. If a murdering cop wants to sneak into your home, he can, too. I mean, if you-Griffin Shaw-wanted me dead,” she shook her head, “there wouldn’t be a damned thing I could do to stop it.”

“But I don’t want you dead,” he said, in a low, fierce voice. “I don’t.”

Yet there was little he could do about it if someone else did. She let her hand drop away. “Maybe you should just go, Grif. Two people have been murdered in the span of one week. My gut tells me it’s precisely because of their proximity to me.”

“I’ve been closer to you than anyone else this whole week,” he countered hotly. “And my gut tells me that’s exactly what’s keeping me safe.”

“That’s a very strange thing to say.”

He shrugged. “That’s my way.”

And, despite it all, she liked his way, too. But she couldn’t say that now. Dennis was walking toward her, which meant she’d soon be standing before Paul’s parents. If she wasn’t strong, their grief would mow her down. “I know I’m not supposed to care about this. Paul was an asshole throughout our marriage. He was an asshole to you. He was an asshole tonight. But no one deserves murder. And…”

When she only shook her head, mouth still open, Grif finished for her. “And you loved him, once.”

She nodded. So maybe Grif was right. Maybe love-even an old, discarded one-did always matter.

“Ready, Kit?” Dennis said, joining her side.

Nodding, she leaned into his embrace and let him wheel her away. Yet they hadn’t taken three steps before Grif’s gravelly voice rang out behind her, louder than she’d ever heard it before. Loud enough that even Hitchens turned and looked, all the way from across the lot.

“I’m not going anywhere, Katherine Craig. I’ll spend every waking hour of this life helping you find out who’s really responsible for these deaths. ’Cuz it’s not you. It isn’t even Paul Raggio’s fault, no matter what else he’s done.”

Kit put a hand on Dennis’s shoulder, asking him to wait. “Do you think Chambers is responsible for this?” she said lowly, when she was again square with Grif.

“What part of this case have we touched that doesn’t have his name on it?”

Kit dragged her fingers through her hair. “And yet he remains untouchable.”

“Nobody’s untouchable.”

She considered that for a moment, then lifted her hand to his stubbled cheek. It had the island of a man swallowing hard. She gave him a small smile. “You remember that, Griffin Shaw.”

Because even though keeping him near had Kit questioning her own mental health, for some reason he, too, very much mattered.

Dawn was tugging at the skyline by the time Grif headed back to Tony’s, carefully navigating the wide streets in Kit’s precious car. If what remained of the night had a scent, it’d be heavy ash and cheap perfume. If it had weight, it’d be a hangover. If it had emotion, it’d be regret. The whole damned thing-from Chambers’s party and Ray’s skin club to the call that’d led him and Kit to death-had left a bad taste in Grif’s mouth. It was the taste of humanity’s underbelly, and he wished there was some way-other than the obvious-to wash it away.

On top of it all, Anas was stalking him. Grif couldn’t see her, but he’d have known it even without her appearance at the stables. The ability that allowed him to open locked doors and communicate with the Pure and feel the combustible heat in Hitchens’s heart was also an instinct. It was an inborn lightning rod, giving him advanced warning, if not protection, from an oncoming storm. The angel was near, she was furious, and she was making it clear she still wanted Kit dead.