Page 168 of Adam
Cain is no better. He’s turned into a ghost in his own house, locked away behind office doors or buried in his room. No one sees him, no one hears from him. But when he does show his face, it’s like the air freezes around him.
Then there’s Katerina. Sweet, soft-spoken, and somehow untouched by all this tension. Like she floats above it. She doesn’t seem phased by Cain’s frostbitten personality. I guess she’s used to it. Maybe she’s seen him worse. But she doesn’t talk much, either; she just offers small comforts and warm glances.
And Grayson … Grayson is distant with the boys. Or the boys are distant with him; I don’t know.
It’s nearly midnight, and the only sound is Adam’s fists hitting the punching bag over and over. The lights in the gym buzz overhead as he trains, repeating the same punches, kicks, and knife throws. He’s soaked in sweat, every muscle tense, his jaw locked, barely holding himself together.
I stand in the doorway, watching him. He hasn’t noticed me yet. Or maybe he has and just doesn’t care.
“Something tells me this is your favorite room in the house,” I say calmly.
He doesn’t answer.
The bag jerks on its chain from the force of another blow. Then another. Then silence, except for his breathing.
“You’re not sleeping.”
“I’m not tired,” I reply, walking closer.
“I can think of a way or two to wear you out,” he says, smirking as he tightens the wrap around his wrist, eyes dragging over me.
“Something tells me I won’t be able to resist that,” I murmur, fingers trailing down his torso.
He doesn’t say another word, just grabs my jaw and pulls me in, crashing his mouth onto mine. It’s rough and deep and, oh God, I’m wet already.
His grip tightens in my hair, the other hand dragging down my back, knife still in his palm.
I push into him, breathing hard as his teeth sink down just enough to pull a gasp from me. And fuck if it doesn’t make me melt into him.
I pull back to look at him, still catching my breath. My fingers trail along his chest, then slide behind me, brushing the handle of the knife he’s holding.
“Why always a knife?” I ask, voice low. “Why not a gun?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “You really like asking that.”
I smile warmly. “I like the answer.”
“Same question, same answer,” he says softly, bringing the blade to my throat. “Guns are for when I want it over.”
His mouth brushes mine when he speaks, his voice quiet and steady.
“A knife drags. It makes you feel everything. Makes you beg for more, or beg to stop. Sometimes both.”
He kisses me again, passionately, then pulls back to murmur, “Same reason I fuck like I kill. I like the mess.”
God, I want him to take me right here. Rip the last bit of control from my hands and ruin me like he means it. But that’s not why I came. I didn’t come to fall apart under him again.
I came to end this waiting.
To pull him out of whatever slow-burning hell he’s sinking into, or let him drag me down with him.
“What are you waiting for?”
His eyes meet mine and hold. For a second, I can’t read him, then something shifts. He pulls back, whatever softness was there just burned out.
“To be sure I won’t be alone,” he says.
“You won’t,” I tell him. “They’ll help you.”
