Burninghandss
"I didn't realize you were keeping count."
"You make it hard not to."
He didn't miss a beat.
She finally looked up at him then, for a split second, before turning back to the work at hand. "You make it seem like it bothers you."
He took a slow step forward.
Then another.
The passing wood creaked beneath his polished black shoes- not from weight, but rather, intention.
And when he did reach her, the air changed. Thickened.
He didn't say a word. Just crouched, until their faces were level. His eyes raked over her- slow, invasive, wicked.
He reached out, fingers catching her chin in a motion neither tender nor tedious- just possessive in its certainty. Like she was his to tilt- nothing more than something placed where he wanted it.
She didn't flinch, didn't pull away, yet her spine straightened- a quiet rebellion he didn't miss.
His thumb skimmed the edge of her jaw, tracing the line of it, the motion maddeningly slow.
"You should know by now," he murmured, voice lower than before- rough silk, meant for her alone, "I don't waste my time on things," a pause, "not unless they crawl under my skin."
He leaned closer, so close the scent of rain on wool and expensive cologne curled around her.
"And you, Adair..." His tone sharpened. One breath more and those lips would certainly brush the shell of her ear. "You don't just crawl... no."
A pause- sharp, surgical.
"You spread, like a fucking disease."
--Gray's Grace is a haunting tale of love caught in the gray - where nothing is certain, and everything is at risk.--