Page 18 of For Dear Life

I’ve no need to turn to detect his stronger blood scent as he moves into the closet, the strength not aided by the stuffy, narrow space between the rails.

“We need to talk about what happened yesterday afternoon,” he says. “Before we meet the others again.”

“I’m busy,” I repeat.

He’s closer still, and hairs on my neck lift. “I killed someone, Violet.”

Holding a gauzy leopard print scarf, I pivot to face him. “This is information that I’m aware of.”

“And I saw you. The Dorian part of you.”

“You’ve seen her before. At Kai’s party.”

“Not like this, Violet. The attack on that shifter was something else...” He shakes his head. “I swear if the witch hadn’t cut me, you would’ve killed the Ursa.”

“I have little recollection of events.”

“Isn’t that the problem?”

I twirl the scarf around my hand. “Do you have a clear recollection of tearing the witch’s heart from his chest?”

His jaw sets harder. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that the problem?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was in a state where my hybrid-self emerged for self-protection. You made a conscious decision to relieve the witch of his heart. You chose to kill, Grayson.”

Grayson laughs at me and inches closer, eyes glittering as he looks down. “Something overrode my thinking, Violet. I’m hemia and a killer. Petrescu. One who’s more dangerous than most because I calculate before I strike. This time? I didn’t calculate but reacted to seeing you impaled, and to the witch bastard laughing at me.”

His blood runs faster, closer to the skin, and I hold the scarf against my nose, inhaling Holly’s perfume. “You panicked because the witch might kill you next?”

“No.”

“Lost control and acted on emotion?” I ask, voice muffled. “Now do you see why I avoid engaging with mine?”

“Are you serious?” he whispers.

I’m growing increasingly claustrophobic amongst the hanging clothes, now on the verge of pressing myself into them to escape Grayson’s presence. What if the same’s happening to him as me, but he can’t fight the temptation? If Grayson yields to that and I spill his blood when I retaliate, the situation will end very badly for me, him, and the condition of Holly’s clothes.

“Can you leave?” I pause. “Please.”

“I wanted to kill the bastard who created the whole situation,” he says hoarsely. “Literally, my mind honed in on the quickest way to do that.”

“Grayson. What is this need to always talk about things?” And the more he does, the more his body reacts to the memory of my death, Grayson’s blood coursing faster until the scarf can’t block his scent anymore. I back up further and hide my head behind a sweater.

“Violet. What are you doing?” he asks. “This is important.”

“Not important enough to corner me in a closet and discuss things that could wait until later.” I inhale the spring-fresh detergent on the sweater. “If you don’t leave, this situation could end badly.”

Grayson yanks the hanger to one side, pulling the fluffy white clothing from my hands. “I’ve never killed without thinking. And I’ve never reacted to anybody in the way I do to you, Violet. I killed a man because of you.”

I straighten. “Excuse me, what? I never asked you to, nor did I use mind control since I was no longer in the room—or breathing. Good grief, Grayson.”

“Your blood,” he says, voice low and thick. “Every time I’m close, I want your blood so much I can’t think straight. But that’s not what took over, Violet.”

“You’re not making sense,” I say equally hoarsely and edge to the left, cotton dresses dragging over my head as I attempt to make my way to the exit.

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