Grey Rose

Rekindled - 7

-Rose-

My poor, poor baby.

Andrew Grey is so different now.

Rhys and I are in a cell in Grey's home. We have nothing but each other to rely on - we haven't any food or drink or hygiene, and he comes to mock us every day.

I don't see him for a full year, and he's a turncoat like Benedict Arnold.

Rhys and I aren't chatting.

Of course not.

I try to make conversation with him every day, with the usual "what's your favorite color," or "what's your favorite movie" type of shit. He just stares at me like I've grown antlers and a beard, not responding.

Today is no different.

Grey's daily visit rolls around his corner, and he isn't his usual, serpent-eyed, cocky self. His white shirt is in tatters, and it's splattered with blood. His right eye is bruised shut.

"Are you okay?" I call out. I don't know why I'm doing this. I don't have feelings for him. But my heart feels as though it's been wrenched out of my heart without being sedated, and it's not a good feeling. I shouldn't be concerned about him. He's with Vlad Grey, out of all things. He's tried to kill me countless times. He's kidnapped me once again.

Grey sits outside the cell, his knees protruding and aligning with mine. His legs are crisscrossed, and I can see that his left foot is heavily scratched and bleeding profusely. He doesn't answer.

I have an urge to reach out to him.

It's Rhys who speaks.

"Had another fight with him, huh?"

He growls at Rhys's snide remark. "Shut your mouth, Frémont."

"What happened, Andrew?"

His jaw stiffens as I use his first name - I'd never used it before, not even the one time he'd fucked me, and the name tastes delicious on my lips for some reason. I can tell he's processing something.

"Nothing."

Grey averts his gaze from me.

Rhys seizes me suddenly, and I am swept into his arms in one flourish - it's a very intimate position - and there is no lust, no desire, no nothing in his eyes. Only a wicked twinkle that tells me I have to play along.

He nips at the spot beneath my earlobe, and inevitably a tiny whimper escapes my lips.

Grey is drawn to the sound.

He doesn't stop biting me all over, and then I find my mouth enraptured by his - but there is no intensity to the kiss - it's merely a play - and I play along. Rhys's hands trace all over my body, leaving trails of heat everywhere, and I am panting, wanting for more. Damn my sensitive body.

The cell door crashes open violently, and Grey yanks me free from Rhys's arms. Grey holds me close to him. He smells like blood and smoke, and from there I can definitely tell what happened.

"Keep your hands off her, brother, or next thing you know, the only thing you're going to be kissing is your gravestone," he warned. "She's mine."

+

Grey drapes himself over me possessively. "Hi, Rose."

"I don't know what to feel about you, Grey. I really don't. First you tell me you're on Vlad Grey's side and now you're acting like a fucking bachelor."

Grey sniffs my hair and hugs me tighter. "You don't have to know who I am to you, Rose. I won't force you to."

"Can you at least get off me?"

He gives me a sultry smile. "No. I haven't held you to me like this for a full year."

It was kinda nice. Okay, fine, maybe a while more.

"Ow, fuck!" Grey hisses, and I spin free of his grasp - his shoulder is bleeding, because I stuck my nails into the wound.

"Oops, sorry! You good?"

He growls. "The pain is nothing, Rose."

"But still," I press, "are you okay?"

Seizing my left hand, he guides me to lay it on his chest, where I can feel his steady heartbeat. "What do you think?"

His eyes are blazing with feral intensity, two spheres of smoldering gold. It's a serious question.

+

"If we weren't like this, would you take any heart to like me?"

Weird question, that is. Weird coming from Grey. "Why?"

"Just...would you, Rose?"

I don't answer him - there's not a palpable answer, to be honest - to like him as to have some sort of desire for him romantically is simply preposterous, given our current predicament and how it would naturally unbalance every single one of those itty bitty mafias out there.

Grey stares into my eyes, probing for an answer.

Ugh, I hate this. "Maybe."

The corners of his mouth turn up with a little smile. "Might that be so, princess? I wouldn't think—ow!" He winces as I dab iodine onto his wounds. "Jesus Christ, don't tell me that iodine is spiked with 101% ethanol!"

It's my turn to send him a wicked grin. The iodine isn't spiked with anything, it's just regular iodine purchased at CVS; his wound is just a bit more infected than I anticipated it to be. "No, it's actually spiked with 101.3141592653589793238—"

His lips taste like fresh blood.

Of course the only way Grey can silence me from reciting 208 digits of pi is to kiss me. A kiss is quite nice, although unprovoked is not my favorite way of delivery.

My cheeks heat up by the second, until he finally decides to pull away with a satisfied grin. "I could get used to kissing you again, Rose." He gathers the tatters of his white shirt and heads out the door, smiling. "Good day, princess."

Ahhhh, I am like a teenager all over again, hormones running rampant and getting flustered upon contact with anyone of the opposite gender - apparently, my hormones don't care if the man standing in front of me is Andrew Grey or my ugly-as-fuck ex, Quinton Hale - they tend to lead me to feel all warm and tingly.

I open the Camera app on my phone (which Grey graciously returned), and I even look the part - a teenager who can't control her super reactive hormones - my face is flushed, and somehow my nasty hair (after being in that crappy cell) manages to make it look like I'd just rolled in bed with Grey - and ugh, there's a puncture in my lip! Damn Andrew Grey for having his doglike teeth.

But I must stay away from Grey - an associate, an ally of Vladimir Grey cannot be trusted - even if they are really good looking and try to seduce me as hard as they can.

I must not let this year-old, half-developed romance be rekindled. If I do, it will surely mean the extinction of my line and my business. I must not have any romantic advances with the bastard son of the guy who murdered my parents - in cold blood.

I must not fall in love with Andrew Grey.

Word Count - 1116