Page 17 of Grave Intentions

It’s wrong; I know it is. Talon is my foster brother, someone I’ve grown up with since I was nine, someone I should see as family. But at this moment, with his gaze locked on mine and his presence overwhelming my senses, I can’t deny the attraction that simmers beneath the surface.

Talon reaches out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. His touch is electric, sending sparks through my veins. I know I should pull away and put some distance between us, but I find myself leaning into his touch instead.

“Lena,” he murmurs. “Do you feel it, too?”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. I know what he’s asking, what he’s implying. And as much as I want to deny it, to push him away and pretend this moment never happened, I can’t lie to myself any longer.

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over my heart pounding. “I feel it.”

Talon’s eyes darken, and he leans in even closer, his breath ghosting over my lips. For a moment, I think he will kiss me, and a part of me wants him to. But instead, he pulls back, a small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Happy birthday, Lena,” he says softly before standing up and walking out of the room, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the lingering heat of his touch on my skin.

I look down at the little bird in my hand, tracing my finger over its smooth, polished surface. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, a tiny piece of art crafted just for me. And it came from Talon, the boy who has always been so cold and distant, who seems to hate the world and everyone in it.

But maybe he doesn’t hate me. Maybe, in his own way, he cares.

13

TALON

TWENTY YEARS OLD

One month later…

Iwatch Lena from the shadows, my eyes never straying far from her delicate form. She moves through the house, her steps light and graceful, even as she carries out the endless chores our foster parents assign her. I can see the strain in the set of her shoulders, the weary resignation in the downcast tilt of her head. But beneath that docile exterior, I know there burns a fierce determination.

Lena may play the obedient foster child, but I’ve seen the small acts of rebellion: how she lingers too long in the bathroom, savoring each rare moment of solitude, and the defiant tilt of her chin when Mrs. Wilson berates her. And I can’t help but admire her spirit, her refusal to be broken by the cruelty of our surroundings.

It’s that same stubborn resilience that draws me to her. I should keep my distance to avoid the inevitable pain of caring for another human being. But Lena...Lena is different. She’s abeacon in the darkness, a fragile yet unyielding light that calls to the deepest, most primal part of me.

So I watch, and I wait, and I plan. I’ve learned to navigate the shadows, blend in, and observe without paying attention to myself. And slowly, methodically, I begin to insert myself into Lena’s life, offering her small, unexpected kindnesses.

A stolen chocolate bar was left on her pillow. A gentle touch that lingers just a fraction too long when I pass her in the hallway. Subtle glances that convey an unspoken understanding, a silent promise that she is not alone in this hell we call home.

I know my actions confuse her, that the contrast between my harsh words and these tender gestures must seem jarring. But I can’t help myself.

So I continue to lurk in the shadows, watching, waiting, biding my time. Because one day, Lena will understand. She’ll see the depths of my devotion and my love’s ferocity. And when that day comes, I’ll be there, ready to claim her as my own.

The shrill sound of Mrs. Wilson’s voice grates on my nerves. For some unknown reason she’s calling us down to dinner, even though we never have dinner together. I brace myself, steeling my expression into an impassive mask before heading to the dining room. The sight that greets me makes my blood boil. Mrs. Wilson’s friends, the Collins family, are here. A perfectly coiffed couple with sickly-sweet smiles plastered across their faces. And beside them, their son. David.

I study him through narrowed eyes, taking in the arrogant set of his broad shoulders and how his gaze lingers a little too long on Lena’s curves. He’s exactly the type of entitled prick I despise—rich, cocky, and undoubtedly used to getting his way.

But the calculating gleam in Mrs. Wilson’s eyes truly sets me on edge. I’ve seen that look before how she sizes people up and makes her plans. And as her gaze flits between Lena and David, the realization hits me.

They’re trying to set them up.

Lena’s only just hit the legal age of consent in Massachusetts, and they’re trying to set her up with a scumbag like David.

A low growl rumbles in my chest as possessive fury claws through my veins. How dare they? How dare they parade Lena in front of this pompous asshole as if she’s a prize to be won?

The darkness swirls within me, an inky, viscous thing threatening to consume me whole. My fingers curl into fists as I fight the urge to lash out and tear this charade apart with my bare hands.

Because Lena is mine.

She may not understand the depths of my obsession, but that doesn’t change the reality of its existence. It’s why I’m still living under the Wilsons’ roof. Why I’m handing over half my paycheck to an asshole who spent years beating me, and now that I’m too big for him, he has turned his attention to Lena when I’m not around. From the moment I first saw her, a scared, vulnerable girl thrust into this hellish existence, she became the center of my universe.

Mrs. Wilson’s grating voice cuts through the tension like a dull knife. “Lena, David, you two probably have so much in common. Why don’t you sit together at the table?”

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