Page 15 of Dravin
“What the hell are you doing?” She has to shout over the sudden roar of the mower coming to life.
“Cutting the grass. Someone should.”
I don’t know who planted the flowers in the backyard, but they ring the small square, tall things growing at the fence, less tall shit blow that. They’re not bordered by anything, and the grass has overrun then.
My eyes zero in.
Kael can see exactly what I’m staring at.
She flies across the yard and throws herself up against the fence, her arms spread out in supplication, but her face is fierce. A warrior goddess to the last. “If you cut these flowers down, Dravin, so help me, any god that might exist, you’re a dead man!”
Chapter 4
Kael
This is too much.
It would honestly be so much easier if Dravin truly was a class A prick who crashed into my life like a tornado, ripped it apart, razed it to the ground, uprooted me, and set me down, and then disappeared and left me to fend for myself. I’ve cycled through every thought possible to describe him. Dark, broody, creepy, off-kilter, strange, dubious, unexpected, inexplicable, mysterious, unfathomable, infuriating.
But a monster?
Why did I call him that? Why did I have to usethatword?
At the heart of me, I know he’s not responsible for any of the tortured shit I’ve been through this past year. I should have known he was always out there. He was the only person I could trust, and I should have done that instead of wildly taking matters into my own hands.
I have only myself to blame for ending up here.
I suppose it’s really not that bad of a city. It’s actually kind of… quaint, sweet, and peaceful. It’s not Hart’s fault that I don’t want to give it a chance. It’s not Dravin’s fault that I’m acting like a brat and taking out my pain on him.
I pushed him. And pushed him. And pushed him. I didn’t think it was possible for a man like him to come apart like this. Unraveled, unglued, seams showing, messy and bleeding.
Like me.
I’ve shown zero gratitude for all that he’s done for me. I’ve taken the death of my brother and put it on his shoulders. I’ve literally asked him why he couldn’t have saved Marcus and told him that it should have been him. Before Marcus was murdered, I would have said that never, in a hundred million lifetimes, could I have ever thought those words, let alone said them out loud.
I’ve done something to this man. I’ve burrowed under skin I thought was impenetrable. He’s not a monster. He’s flesh and blood.
And right at this moment he looks pissed enough to dismantle that lawnmower, take the blade, get down on his hands and knees, and cut all the grass by propelling it with his own hands and the sheer force of his anger just because it would be more satisfying.
The sun overhead glares down, not a cloud in sight to offer the least bit of shelter. Dravin’s shirtless, but that just shows off his impressive body, muscled, yet streamlined. His entire torso and arms flex as he attacks the lawn and soon sweat glistens on his skin, droplets cascading down his neck and trickling over hard pecs and chiseled abs.
There are small scars slashed across his body, little white flecks that range all the way to larger jagged lines. His arms are flecked with scars, but more so ropey veins and sinewy muscles. One shoulder has the kind of puckered mark that looks suspiciously like a bullet wound. It’s the right side of his face thathas the most scarring, mainly around his right eye, bisecting the eyebrow and continuing into his hairline. But it doesn’t distract from the fact that he’s smoking hot.
It’s been impossible for me to focus on anything this past year other than moving forward. I don’t know what’s happening to me today, but the image of Dravin’s naked chest is now going to be stamped into my brain for eternity.
I flick my eyes up to his face quickly. I was cowardly, afraid to see the naked pain burning fever bright in his eyes or see the devastation that I’d wrought, but I force myself to look now.
His jaw is clenched, a vein thundering at his temple. The long dark strands of his hair flop over his eye, not gentle or boyish, but somehow aggressive since they’re slicked down. His hair obscures his right eye, but the one pulses madly around the whole yard before his dark gaze finally settles back on me with something close to absolute menace.
I swallow hard, breathing like I’m the one about to stroke out. So far, I’ve managed to protect the flowers, but I should have known that my threats didn’t faze him. He was simply biding his time.
My heart jackhammers as he turns the mower and starts right for me.
He wouldn’t hurt me. Not ever. I don’t know him, but I do trust him. Even I’d had a choice, he’s the kind of man who a person can put their faith in. I don’t know how I know that, but I’ve felt it before. It’s my truth.
It doesn’t stop my palms from sweating or my skin from going clammy as that mower advances. I’m not worriedthat he’d hurt me and we’re not playing some fucked up version of chicken where I have to dodge before he comes at me, but the yard has flowers all along the edges and I can only stand in one spot at a time.
Did I make him angry enough to punish the flowers?
