Page 100 of Graves

Aran Graves is a murderer, I remind myself—but those words have already lost their power.

Fuck.

I’m falling for him.

This is bad.

We’re just supposed to be having fun!

I carry the dirty dishes to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. Pixie perks up, leaps off the couch, and runs barking toward the front door.

The door opens and Aran walks in with Fox.

I don’t know what I expected, but definitely not this: Fox has to hold him up because he can barely stay on his feet.

And isn’t he here too soon? Is the concert already over?

What worries me more is how wrecked he looks. His hair is wet and more disheveled than usual. His tank top is ripped at the left side of his chest, bloody scratches marking his arms and neck.

I move to calm Pixie, but Aran pushes away from Fox and stumbles past me into the kitchen.

“What happened?” I ask, horrified. “Did he get in a fight?”

Fox sighs. “Something like that. Shit got rough. Maybe I should—”

“Go home!” Aran slurs, gripping the open fridge door. “I’m fine!”

He sounds annoyed, but underneath it there’s desperation.

“It’s okay,” I tell Fox. “We’ve got this.”

“All right,” the bodyguard mutters. “Call if you need anything.”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

Fox says goodbye to Aran, but Aran just grabs a beer, cracks it open, and chugs.

I close the door behind Fox and follow Aran into the kitchen.

“What happened? Are you okay?” When I get closer, I notice the dark marks on his neck. Shocked, I reach out. “Jesus… Were you choked?”

He slaps my hand away. His deep blue eyes flash like a cornered animal. He looks exhausted, but his muscles are tense, ready to fight at any second.

“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling my hand back. “I didn’t mean to—”

“What?” he asks coldly. “You want to tear me down too, just like everyone else?”

I frown, confused. “I don’t want to… What?”

“You despise me just like the rest of the world!” he snaps. “I’m the guy who killed Ben Jenkins! What else do I deserve but hate?”

I have no idea what happened, but it’s clear something knocked the ground out from under him. His hands are shaking, and I search in vain for the man who held me so gently just a few days ago. Shit. Even the fact that he wrote all those beautiful lyrics is starting to fade like an illusion in thin air.

Before I can respond to his insane question, he steps closer. His expression shifts, and I see how fragile he is.

“Let’s have some fun,” he suggests in a raw, wounded voice, setting the beer down. “Right here.” He rests his hands at my waistband.

Startled, I step back and bump into the counter.