Page 69 of Live To Tell

I smile. “A select few. He believes everything he does is for the greater good—or at least that’s what he tells himself. Dorian’s a narcissistic sociopath.”

Grayson chokes. “I hope you’ve never said that to his face. And again, that comment isn’t reassuring.”

I decide in that moment not to tell Grayson about Oz’s fate. I’ve learned enough to know telling Grayson that Dorian kills any threats to me isn’t smart. “Eloise provides some balance. As do Ethan and Zeke.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Then I pity whoever’s behind this plot against him.”

We lapse into silence as Grayson rubs a scratch on the back of his hand with a thumb. The wounds are starting to heal but there’s still copious amounts of blood. Silently, I head back to the bathroom and return with more paper towels.

I’ve avoided something he said.

Loves me.

“I thought a lot about what you said that time in my room—how you’re ‘done’,” I hold the damp towel towards him. “You meant me.”

Grayson sighs and takes hold, looking forward, silent again. “As if I ever could be, especially now we’ve this blood bond.”

But that isn’t all we have. I denied my feelings for Grayson long before that night, already confused by my emerging emotional responses to Rowan. And I’ve continuously denied the draw to Grayson as anything but his blood. Grayson undeniably shares that pull—he constantly reminds me that he doesn’t desire my blood, therefore the way he looks at me is a different type of craving.

I sit beside Grayson again, his solid thigh against mine, and he pushes hair from my face. I don’t move or protest, and this odd craving for Grayson’s touch when I’m close to him contradicts everything I once knew about myself.

How many times have I looked at Grayson and imagined he did kiss me that morning in Holly’s closet—or the many times afterwards? How often has my skin tingled at the idea of his long fingers stroking me?

That response to Grayson came before I attacked him. Grayson’s appeal isn’t his blood.

“You also said we’ve moved beyond worrying what I might do if I kissed you,” I say quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I think maybe if we had kissed before that night at the warehouse, I wouldn’t doubt myself as much. Because I did consider kissing you many times.” He turns his head, but his expression remains blank. “I don’t want you to stay away from me, Grayson. Something’s missing when you do.”

“Not nice being closed out, huh?” he asks softly.

I stand and look down. “Grayson. I am informing you that I’d like to kiss you.” No change to his expression, although there’s a definite confused change to his expression. “But I understand—you’re ‘done’.”

Grayson stands too and cups the back of my head, warm fingers pressing against my scalp, as he rests his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to stay away from you either, Violet, but I need to know what you want from me.”

“To kiss you. Weren’t you listening?”

“Why? To prove to yourself you’re not a monster?” Grayson’s head remains against mine, his words a whisper against my lips, setting a tingling in my blood.

“Grayson, I thought you might drop your constant need to talk about things. If you confirm you would not like me to kiss you, I will back away.”

Grayson’s face remains close, his breath against my mouth, fingers still in my hair. I can hear his blood, smell what’s on his clothes and running beneath his skin, but all that bothers me is how near his mouth is to mine, and how I can’t breathe properly.

Then suddenly I understand what Grayson’s doing by not kissing me.

He’s waiting.

I tip my head, curl a hand around his neck to pull him closer and touch my lips to Grayson’s, briefly the way he did to me in my room. His hand tightens around my head, and Grayson circles his other arm around my waist to pull me closer.

“If you are considering my proposal, I don’t like soft kisses,” I inform him, our mouths almost touching again.

“Not a problem.”

His mouth hits mine, my breath knocked away as my back slams hard against the lockers several meters behind, the crash echoing around the empty changing rooms. Grayson kisses me exactly as I imagined he would—uncontrolled and with a desperate hunger. I grip Grayson’s hair and return his bruising kiss, our tongues exploring each other's mouths. He growls low in his throat and pins me against the locker with his hips, eager lips still moving against mine.

Grayson pushes his hand beneath my sweater, sweeping his fingers lightly along my lower back. His hands don’t wander further but hold me tightly, as if I might fall if he lets go. I crave more of that touch, to hold my hands against his skin too, and my blood runs hotter at the thought.

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