Page 58 of Shattered By Grace

His hands framed her face, thumbs tracing delicate paths along her cheekbones, his touch uncharacteristically soft. The hunger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but this moment wasn’t just about desire. It was something raw, something real.

Her heart pounded, each beat a silent question, a plea for whatever was unfolding between them.

His hands found her waist, holding her there as his chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly, his thumb tracing slow, soft circles against her hip. “How to want something this much without ruining it.” His voice was raw, like the words cost him something to say. “But you…” He let out a sharp breath, shaking his head as if trying to clear the storm in his mind. “You make me want to figure it out.”

Victoria’s throat tightened, her fingers ghosting over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her touch.

She didn’t speak, she didn’t need to. Instead, she reached up, cupping his face in her hands, letting her lips brush against his. He kissed her back, but there was no desperation, no fight for control. Just a quiet surrender.

And then he kissed her, slow and consuming, like he was searching for an answer in the feel of her, in the way she melted into him. His hands slid down her arms, gripping her waist like he needed to hold onto something solid, something real.

“What are you doing to me?” he murmured against her lips, his forehead resting against hers.

Before she could respond, his mouth found hers again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no resistance, just a depth that sent her spiraling right along with him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Her mind lingered on Tristan, body still tingling from their unforgettable goodbye kiss. At four thirty a.m., Victoria arrived at the hospital, dawn barely breaking. The night shift was winding down, but a strange tension hung in the air. She pushed through the sliding doors, trying to shake off the haze from Tristan. The sharp scent of antiseptic grounded her, but as she neared the elevators, her steps slowed.

A group of men stood by the waiting area, their presence impossible to ignore, even in the dull, grayish hospital light. They looked like they’d been carved out of stone. Tall, built, and menacing, each one wearing the same uniform of black shirts stretched over thick muscles.

It wasn’t just their size that made them intimidating. It was the tattoos.

Dark ink wrapped around their forearms and biceps, the mark of the Locke family’s enforcers. A black serpent, coiled around a dagger, its fangs bared, ready to strike. The dagger’s hilt bore an engraved “L”, a not-so-subtle, unmistakable sign of loyalty.

But it was the tally marks beside the dagger that made her pulse jump. Several of them were marked with two tallies.

Her stomach tightened.What are they doing here?

A deep voice cut through the low hum of beeping monitors and distant murmurs.

“Did you see Tyson last night? Man’s a beast. He’s gonna make it big at the Reaping.”

“Heard he won ten million,” another added, his voice softer but no less sharp. He was shorter, but his presence was just as unnerving, the serpent tattoo crawling up his neck like a living thing.

Her stomach churned. Tyson…

She knew both he and Tristan were set to fight, to elevate their family’s standing in that brutal, twisted arena. But hearing it confirmed by these men with their easy confidence, the casual way they spoke of it like a sport instead of a blood-soaked battleground, made her feel sick.

Then, a different voice, lower, almost a whisper: “Boss ain’t happy about this.”

“Should’ve finished the job.”

Her pulse stuttered.What?

She felt her breath hitch, her spine stiffening as cold fear slithered through her.Were they talking about Tyson?Or… someone else?

So lost in thought, she almost walked straight into the broad, immovable back of one of the men. He was a towering presence, the sheer size of him making her feel small andvulnerable. The scent of leather and smoke clung to him, and just standing this close sent a prickle of unease down her spine.

Her gaze flickered to the tattoo on his forearm. The serpent’s fangs sank into the dagger’s hilt, blood dripping from the bite. But what made her breath catch was the four tally marks slashed beside it.

Not just leadership. A high-ranking. A man who had taken lives for the Locke family and would do it again without pause.

Keeping her tone steady, she forced out, “Excuse me, gentlemen, I need to get on the elevator.”

The conversation died instantly. One by one, they turned. Their gazes pinned her in place, heavy and assessing, like they were trying to decide whether she was a threat or something else entirely.

Oh fuck.

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