Page 25 of Grim’s Angel

McKenna

Grim’s cabin sits at the end of a road the forest has nearly reclaimed.

Rain follows us up the mountain, drumming against the SUV Striker insisted we take instead of the motorcycle. Pines crowd the narrow track until the rest of the world disappears behind branches and mist. By the time the cabin emerges between the trees in the SUV’s headlights, I understand why Grim believes nobody will find us here.

What I do not understand is why a man who looks carved from violence owns a cabin with flower boxes beneath the windows.

“You have flowers.”

Grim follows my gaze to the wilted purple blooms. “My mother used to love them.”

“Who waters them?”

“I do.”

The answer catches me somewhere beneath the ribs.

One corner of his mouth lifts as he studies the plants. The smile is brief, rough around the edges, and devastating enough to make me forget that we are hiding from men who were paid to deliver me to a stranger.

“They’re still alive,” I say.

“They know better than to give up on me.”

I cannot tell whether he is joking.

He carries my suitcase onto the porch, unlocks the door, and disarms the security system. After letting me inside, he sets the case beside the entrance, locks the door, and arms the alarm again. Then he moves through the cabin, testing the windows and the lock on the back door.

The protective ritual should make me more nervous.

Instead, I feel the tension ease from my shoulders.

We remove our wet shoes near the entrance. Grim points out the bathroom, bedroom, and rear exit.

Warm timber covers the walls. A worn leather couch faces a stone hearth, with split firewood stacked beside it. Shelves crowded with books occupy the wall near the kitchen, and a heavy wooden table bears the scratches of years of use. The place feels rugged without being careless, masculine without trying to prove anything.

There are no motorcycle parts in the sink or weapons mounted on the walls like trophies.

A framed photograph rests on the mantel. A dark-haired boy stands beside an elegant woman whose silver eyes resemble Grim’s. The man on her other side has been folded out of the picture.

Grim notices where I am looking and turns the frame facedown.

I pretend not to notice.

“I didn’t expect it to be this clean,” I say.

He looks around. “Expected blood on the walls?”

“At least one motorcycle engine on the kitchen table.”

“The military taught me to keep my quarters squared away.”

“And the motorcycle engines?”

“Garage.”

I glance toward the door beside the kitchen. “There’s a garage?”

“Two bays.”