Page 15 of Grave Intentions

I sprint down the aisle, my shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. As I round the corner, I slam into what feels likea brick wall. Strong hands grip my shoulders to steady me, and I look up into piercing blue eyes.

Talon.

My breath stalls in my throat. This close, I catch his familiar scent—pine and a scent that’s uniquely him. His hands drop from my shoulders like I’ve burned him.

“Hey,” I whisper, the word escaping before I can stop it.

He grunts, jaw clenched, and steps back.

“Why are you being like this?” The question bursts out of me. “You won’t even look at me anymore.”

Talon’s silence stretches between us like razor wire. His cold, unreadable eyes bore into mine.

“What do you want me to be like?” His voice comes out low.

Heat floods my cheeks as memories of that day at school flash through my mind—his body pressing me against the lockers, his breath hot on my neck, the way my heart raced. I drop my gaze to the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

“I—” The words stick in my throat. How can I tell him I miss his protection? That the house feels emptier, colder without him there the way he used to be? That Mr. Wilson’s fists find me more often now?

I tug at my sleeve, a nervous habit I’ve developed to hide the evidence of Wilson’s anger. But Talon catches the movement. His hand shoots out, gripping my wrist. I wince as his fingers brush against fresh bruises.

He yanks up my sleeve, exposing the mottled purple and yellow marks that paint my skin. A growl rumbles deep in his chest, animalistic and raw. His grip tightens, and tremors run through his body.

“He did this?” The words come out between clenched teeth.

I try to pull away, but he holds me firm. “It’s nothing. I dropped a plate and?—”

“Don’t lie to me.” His fingers trace the distinct shape of fingerprints wrapped around my wrist. “Mr. Wilson did this because I wasn’t there.”

“Yes.” The admission comes out barely above a whisper. “He’s gotten worse since you stopped being around.”

Talon’s face contorts with regret, his fingers gentling on my wrist. “I’m sorry, Lena. I never meant for this to happen to you.”

“It’s not your fault.” I step closer, drawn to his warmth like a moth to a flame. “You’ve aged out of the system, so… I get it. You’re on your own.”

I shrug. I guess he’s lucky the Wilsons still let him call their house “home,” even though the government checks for fostering Talon stopped when he turned eighteen.

His thumb traces circles on my pulse point. The fluorescent lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw. The air between us crackles with unspoken words and suppressed feelings.

“Why aren’t you home at least sometimes, anyway?” I search his eyes, desperate for answers. “I barely see you.”

Talon drops my wrist and takes a step back, breaking our connection. “I pick up every extra shift I can get here. Need the money.”

“What for?”

“Saving up.” He runs a hand through his dark hair. “As soon as I have enough, I’m leaving.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. Leaving. Talon’s leaving. My chest tightens at the thought of facing the Wilsons alone all day, every day, of living in that house without his presence lurking in the shadows.

“Oh.” It’s all I can manage past the lump in my throat.

“Lena! What’s taking so long?” Angela’s voice cuts through the tension. She appears at the end of the aisle, hands on her hips. “We’re waiting at checkout.”

My cheeks burn. “Sorry! I got distracted.”

I glance back at Talon, whose expression has hardened into that familiar mask of indifference. “I’ll see you around.”

He doesn’t respond. His blue eyes track my movements as I grab the French onion dip from the shelf. My fingers tremble as I clutch the container to my chest and hurry toward the checkout, feeling the weight of his stare on my back until I round the corner.

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