Page 29 of Greed
Mary noticed Griffin’s entrance. Sweat plastered her dark hair around her face, and the rest was tied at her nape in a low braid. She wore black yoga attire and looked mighty fit for a woman of her age.
“Griffin,” she said, halting. “What happened to your shoulder?”
He glanced at the red raw puckered wound, already closing over. “I got shot.”
Obviously.
She knew what a bullet wound looked like as much as he. It even had the stitches Grace had put in there.
Mary stared. It was as though she gathered her patience. She always had that look around him. He knew he was hard to communicate with compared to the others, but she never lost her temper with him.
“How did you get shot?” she asked.
He moved toward the wooden man—tree. Wooden tree. Chopped tree. Felled tree. Something. He removed his glasses and put them on his folded pile of clothes.
“If you’re finished,” he said. “I need to hit something.”
Mary stepped to the side. “Be my guest.”
To avoid aggravating his shoulder, Griffin started slow, but with Mary watching, he quickly became irritated and pushed too hard.
“You’re dropping your left elbow.”
“That’s because I’ve been shot.”
“Perfect time to train.”
Was she being sarcastic? He didn’t want to ask. Instead, he lifted his left elbow, stifled his wince from the shot of pain, and jabbed another branch.
After a few minutes of silence, Mary spoke. “Are you going to tell me what’s got your panties in a twist?”
“By panties in a twist, you’re referring to my mood.”
“Naturally. What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.” Jab. Knee. Jab. Knee.
Soon, sweat poured over Griffin’s naked torso and soaked into his waistband. His lungs burned. His shoulder screamed. But it felt good. It felt something. It felt like control.
“Griffin.”
“Mary.” He punched a wooden arm, and it splintered off, landing on the rubber ground with a thud.
Damn it.
“It’s not nothing. Griffin, look at me.” Mary tried to turn his face with a soft touch to his jaw, but the sensation made him flinch.
“Don’t!” he snapped. Unwanted touch still made him skittish.
Nobody told Mary no, so with a more forceful grip, she displayed his wrist tattoo. Usually this was the way she could tell if her children were lying to her, but with Griffin, his was always balanced.
He allowed her the look. The pressure was firm, unlike the soft feathery touch she’d used on his face. He could deal with firm.
She growled in frustration. “Talk to me.”
Griffin didn’t need her sympathy, her pity, or her help. She’d left him to that grueling seven year training on his own. Each of his siblings went through it a year apart. He’d hated it. He’d been beat up, tortured, and ruthlessly punished with endless nights of physical training. In the end, he also became something none of his siblings were—a cold hearted killer. This control was the only way he stopped that from happening again. No thanks to her.
“Griffin,” Mary said. “Are you listening to me?”
