Page 28 of Grace

The number of punches, kicks, and baton strikes that rained down on him made me wince.

The stale air—reeking of cheap coffee, weathered furniture, old paper, and dying, rotting flowers—grew heavy.

Words burned in my throat. I wanted to stop those men—he didn’t deserve to be beaten to a pulp on the ground. My nails dug into the soft armrest of the chair. I wanted to stand, but a voice in my head stopped me.

What if he’s a predator like Chase? What if he’s hurt people, too?

I watched the scene in silence, my eyes wide, my lips slightly parted.

When they took away the other prisoner—whose voice we could still hear echoing down the corridor for a while—Cyrus said, “Okay, enough, Lewis.”

His deep voice rumbled through the room, authoritative and commanding.

The cops stopped disciplining him. They quickly unchained him, and someone offered a hand to help him up—but he just growled at the officers around him, who nearly pissed themselves. He got up quickly, with a dexterity that belied his size. He straightened his rumpled clothes and wiped the blood seeping from a cut above his brow with an arrogant movement.

He started walking toward me, his expression severe. The rocker chains at his side clinked softly. The old floorboards creaked under his weight. His boots were worn, his overall appearance unkempt. Shabby brown hair had slipped loose from his hair tie and fallen to his shoulders. His masculine, hard features were shadowed by several days’ worth of stubble.

Considering he’d just been beaten to hell, his movements were almost effortless.

When he reached me, his smell hit me first. He smelled like a bar on two legs: the bitter tang of cigarettes, stale beer, something faintly spicy—it must’ve been his perfume—and a trace of manly sweat, visible on his suntanned skin.

He had a strong jawline and a long, proportionate nose that matched his face and wide brow.

He was huge, like a pro wrestler. His black tank top clung to his torso, showcasing his muscled chest and abs. He had tattoos on his arms.

Is every criminal this gorgeous? I thought—and immediately wanted to slap myself.

But the thing was… he was gorgeous, too.

A sinfully attractive face, and an outrageously beautiful, muscled body.

Dark eyes full of temptation. Full, soft lips—and a smile that could see straight through you.

His mind, however… his mind was a harmonic mixture of the darkest night and the cruelest nightmares.

My attention turned back to Cyrus. I watched with furrowed brows as he picked up my folder and left without a word.

I didn’t know why, but I stood up and followed him.

We walked until we reached a dark, closed door, its surface pocked with indentations… made by fists. He went in, then turned back and looked at me.

I couldn’t say anything to him. The questions were on the tip of my tongue—what had that whole thing with the other cops been, the scene everyone had just witnessed? But I was ashamed of my smile, because I was missing a few teeth. I looked down at my bare toes sticking out of my torn stockings.

Cyrus stepped into the office and closed the door in my face. I stared at the worn nameplate.

Cyrus Phoenix

Lieutenant

Chapter 4

2009

Grace

The host of the morning news show, Jerry Jeff, brayed in a high-pitched voice, like someone who had just been kicked in the nuts. I was so absorbed in my morning jam toast and iced tea that I missed the first half of the joke. And, of course, I had another distraction—Cyrus’s wet hair.

I never refrained from tracing the outlines of his body, just like he keeps drinking me in. But that’s where the invisible line that we—or, more precisely, I—drew in our relationship lies, the one that neither of us ever crosses. We live together in a relationship without sex.