Grim glances at me, and in the light of the flickering sconces on the walls, I take in her wet face, her dripping hair, and her deepening frown. “You’re going to catch your death.” She reaches out, about to touch me, but she stops herself—suddenly—as if an invisible wall rose up between us. Her hand hovers in midair and then drops, like a bird felled from the sky.
She takes a step backward. “Let’s go to the dining hall. The fire should still be lit.” Her voice is formal, reserved. She sets off down the corridor, and I have no choice but to follow her, trailing puddles of rainwater behind me. I rub my hands over my slick arms, shaking so hard that I clench my jaw to prevent my teeth from clacking together.
I sag with relief when I see that no one else is in the dining hall. Pizza pans—four of them, I note—are lying on one of the tables, along with dirty plates piled in a neat stack, but the room itself is deserted.
I follow Grim to the hearth.
The fire is low, so Grim opens the grating, takes up a little pitchfork from the brass set, and begins to stoke the flames. I stand in front of the fire a little self-consciously: the carpeting ended in the hallway, and the marble tiles in here clearly show the large puddle leaking from my body.
“Here, come closer.” Grim gestures to me over her shoulder, almost impatiently, and I step near. She’s down on one knee in front of the flames. I’m shaking hard as I hold out my palms to the growing blaze.
Grim glances at me, then back down at the fire, as she takes another log from the pile by her chair. “You can come even closer, you know. I don’t bite.”
I stare down at her, fascinated. I know she meant for the words to be a joke, but she isn't smiling. She’s worried. I see pain on her face, pain so acute that it’s as if she's hiding a broken limb or a gaping wound...
I want to ask her if she hurt herself in the woods, but I can’t unlock my jaw enough to speak. I’m too cold. That thunderstorm showered us with the most brutally cold rain I’ve ever felt. And the long trek to Grim Tower felt endless.
Strangely, though, Grim doesn’t appear to be cold at all. She’s busily stoking the fire, feeding yet another log to the flames, poking at it. So she doesn’t expect me to reach out and brush my fingertips over her shoulder.
I shudder at the contact because her skin, impossibly, is radiating heat.
And, weirdly enough, I start to feel warmer myself, as if I'm absorbing the warmth of her body. The sensation curls into my skin like smoke.
It’s an oddly intimate moment, even though it’s just a simple touch: a hand on a shoulder. It means nothing, really... But as she crouches on the marble, her gaze affixed to the fire, something passes between us, something beyond words.
Grim draws in a deep breath, her shoulder rising beneath my palm, and she lets it out slowly, sighing long and low.
I can see that she's clenching her jaw, and her muscles are taut beneath my cold palm.
When she glances up at me, I gape at the pain evident in her eyes. Her amber gaze is brimming with an emotion I can’t quite place, though I recognize a depth of sadness that guts me to the core.
“Grim?” I whisper.
She shakes her head a little, turns back to the fire, but the tension between us rises.
I remove my hand. “I...have to call the police,” I force out around my clacking teeth.
“What?”
“I saw something in the woods,” I say, all in a rush, “and Betty and the kids weren’t where they said they’d be. Something’s wrong. I need to make sure they’re okay.”
“I'm sure Betty is fine.” Grim rises then, a slow, smooth motion, like a predator taking care not to spook its prey. I observe the grace of her body, and I hug myself with wet, trembling arms. “And I’m afraid my phone is dead.” Her words are clipped. “You’ll have to use yours.”
“Mine’s dead, too.” I take it out of my pocket, realize that it—like the rest of me—is dripping wet. I grimace, staring down at the water-spattered screen. “I hope it still works.”
“I’ll go put it in some rice.” Grim holds out her hand to me, and I glance at her, my head angled to the side.
“Grim,” I whisper, working my jaw. “Did you...see anything weird out in the woods?”
Her eyes are clouded as she watches me carefully. “No.” Then: “What did you see, Bella?”
I want to tell her. But as I open my mouth, I pause, second-guess myself.
Grim’s acting strange.
I have secrets. I think of her words as I stare across the space between us.
Why was Grim in the woods tonight, so far outside of town? It's too coincidental that we ended up finding each other in the middle of nowhere, in the forest, beside an abandoned barn...
Something's going on. And—secrets or not—I need answers.
“Grim...” I smile weakly, though I don't feel like smiling. I’m afraid of what I saw in the woods; I’m worried about Betty. “You said you have secrets.” I can’t believe I’m asking this question. I’m trying to pose it in a playful manner, but the timing is all wrong. “Will you tell me your secrets?” I whisper.
Agony sweeps over her face. She stares down at me, swallows, breathes out. Her hand, palm up and waiting for my phone, drops to her side.
She says nothing, not for a long moment that seems to stretch into infinity. I watch her carefully, feeling the pain emanate from her into me. I shift onto the balls of my feet, letting my gaze fall, the awkwardness of the moment binding us, tight and uncomfortable.
“No, Bella,” she murmurs, and she lifts her chin. “I can’t.”
She holds out her hand again for my phone, and—a little stunned—I give it to her.
Then she brushes past me and out of the room, and I'm left behind with the crackling of the fire and the roar of my heart.
Chapter 13: The Port in a Storm
When Grim returns to the dining hall, I’ve mentally dug myself a nice, quiet grave of embarrassment. Why did I ask her that personal question? I'd prefer to dig a literal grave instead of a figurative one, but, unfortunately, I don’t have access to a shovel.
So I’m sitting cross-legged on the marble floor, as close to the fire as I dare to be. I just can’t seem to get warm. My palms are hot, held out in front of the open flames, but the rest of my body won't stop shaking.
Grim hands me a mug of something. “I put your phone in a bowl of dry rice,” she says, as I take the mug. “Hopefully that will reverse any water damage.”
“Thank you.” I glance down into the mug—hot chocolate, with tiny marshmallows. I inhale the steam appreciatively; it smells divine. But it doesn't seem right for me to have this hot, decadent drink in my hands when Betty and her family...
My stomach clenches.
“I'm so worried about Betty,” I sigh, peering back up at Grim.
She opens her mouth and then closes it, as if reconsidering her words. Then she crouches down beside me and stares into the fire. “There’s a landline phone in my bedroom if you need to make a call.”
I'm nodding before she finishes her sentence. “Yes! I’d love that—thanks. I just keep imagining that something terrible has happened to her.”
“Come on. I’ll show you the way.” Grim’s voice, as usual, is gruff.
She stands up, straightening again, and I take a sip of the hot chocolate before I clamber to my feet. The drink is so delicious that my half-frozen toes curl in delight, despite being encased in oppressively soggy shoes. I burn my tongue, but I don’t even care. This isn’t the sort of hot chocolate you get out of a packet. It's the real stuff, the good stuff.
I frown slightly. If Grim can make hot chocolate from scratch, why the hell does she need a cook?
Almost as if she’s anticipating the question, Grim glances back over her shoulder at me as we exit the room. “My mother used to make that hot chocolate recipe all the time.” The words are soft, with no hint of her default roughness. “I was the oldest kid, and I always let Jordan—the youngest—have my ex
tra helping.”
She stops talking abruptly. Her shoulders seem to rise with tension as we near a broad staircase, and she stops for a moment, placing her hand on the banister.
The staircase is wide, carpeted, and decidedly Victorian in style. I regard it woefully, wondering how much damage my drippy self is doing to the original wood floors beneath the carpeting. It hasn’t escaped my attention that Grim is nearly dry already, and she never seemed to shiver from the cold at all. Maybe she does have a fever, the rainwater evaporating from her clothes quickly because of her elevated body temperature. It doesn't seem likely, though. All I know is that her hair is dry, and her clothes aren’t clinging wetly to her body like mine are.
I follow her up the stairs and along the hallway.
“Here we are,” she says a few moments later. She stops in front of one wooden door in a long line of wooden doors. They all look identical to me. “If you give me your wet clothes, I'll put them in the dryer.” Grim opens the door, ushering me inside. “I have a robe for you to wear.”
And she flips on the light switch.
I've come to expect regality and neo-Victorian decoration in Grim Tower.
But Grim’s room is plain, sparse. Against one wall is a king-size bed with a white duvet. Beside it is a simple white bedside table with a white lamp. The headboard and footboard of the bed—made of sharp, straight lines—are also white. The walls are white; the carpeting is white... The double bookshelf against the wall is white.
The room is so white that, when I step inside, I shiver a little. It might just be the influence of the color (or lack thereof), but the temperature feels cooler in here.
I watch as Grim opens a white door that leads into a white bathroom, where she takes a robe off of a hook and hands it to me. The sight of the robe is almost shocking against the arctic background: it's as red as roses.
“Thanks.”
She slides her hands into her jeans pockets, looking away from me. “I’ll wait for your clothes.” She jerks her chin toward the bed and crosses the space to sit on the edge of it.
“Oh. Okay, I’ll just be a minute. Can I use your phone then?” I look past her to the phone on the bedside table, a sleek, modern handset, and she nods, avoiding my gaze.
A bathroom can tell you a lot about a person. Whether they’re messy or neat, whether they enjoy small indulgences—like handmade bath soaps—and even what they like to read. But when I close the door to the bathroom and find myself alone in the cold, white space, I glance around curiously...and nothing of Grim is revealed to me.
The room is just white. Hotel perfect. All of Grim's toiletries are hidden away, almost as if she doesn’t really use the room at all. Grim has been living here for at least a month, and she hasn't left a single imprint on the space.
Maybe I'm projecting a little, but it seems apparent that Grim has no interest in allowing herself to be known.
Perplexed, I strip off my clothes, tuck my intimates deep inside the soggy pile, and then I’m standing there, shaking, gazing at my reflection in the mirror. I look more than a little bit drowned, my long brown hair clinging to my shoulders like seaweed. A wracking shiver moves through me, and I glance at the tub wistfully. I could really use a shower.
“Hey...Grim?” Still naked, I cross the bathroom, my arms held in front of my breasts as I lean against the closed door.
“Yeah?” she asks from the other side. Her voice sounds strained.
“Would you mind if I used the shower? I’m just so cold—”
“Go ahead. But can I have your clothes?” She pauses. “So that you'll have something warm and dry to change into later.”
“Oh. Sure.” I pick up the wet bundle and open the door, shielding myself carefully behind it. When she accepts the clothes from me, I don’t feel her skin graze against mine: she's being careful, too, to avoid touching me.
With the transaction complete, I close the door, pressing my palm against the wood of it.
A sensation slides across my bare skin, as quick and warm as the rain was cold. I lean my forehead against the door and hold my breath. Is Grim still there? I didn't hear her move away... Is she still standing just on the other side?
“Grim?” I murmur softly, quietly.
A shift of clothing, a long sigh, and then: “I’m here,” she says, so close that I wonder if she’s leaning against the door, too.
A shiver overtakes me. I close my eyes.
Every last bit of my body wants her.
Every last bit of my head knows that acting upon my longing would be a very, very bad idea.
I take up the bathrobe with shaking hands, pull it on and tie the belt at my waist firmly. Then I crack open the bathroom door.
She’s standing there, my wet clothes held in her arms. Her face is tense but blank, as if she steeled herself for the sight of me. Still...there’s something flickering beneath her mask. A wildfire in those amber eyes.
I grip the bathroom doorknob tightly.
We stand unspeaking, electricity zinging between us, as if the storm has moved indoors.
Beyond the window, thunder crashes and a bolt of lightning streaks the sky.
And, suddenly, all of the lights in the room wink out.
I gasp out loud; I wasn’t expecting the electricity to fail—not now, especially not now. But my body reacts instinctively, and I reach out in the darkness.
Grim takes my hand, easily, effortlessly. It’s almost as if she can see in the dark. Her hot palm slides against mine, and she wraps her fingers lightly around my wrist—too lightly. Nevertheless, I feel her intensely: her palm, her fingers, her pinkie grazing the back of my hand...
I find myself shuddering, teetering on the brink of making a huge mistake. I want her with every fiber of my being, but I can't sleep with my boss.
“That’s...some storm, huh?” My voice sounds breathy and unnatural, strained with false brightness.
Grim says nothing.
“I’m...I’m glad we made it inside when we did. It seems like it’s going to pour all night.” What the hell am I saying? It’s the inane kind of stuff I bantered about with my customers at the diner. Light. Meaningless.
I’m good at light. I’m good at meaningless. I’m great at small talk.
What I’m not so good at is this—here and now. The air between us is searing; wearing only a bathrobe, I feel too hot. Desire rises inside of me...
“Grim.” My voice catches. You can hear the ache in it, the unspoken question. I can’t hide the fact that I’m attracted to her, can’t hide it even here in the dark.
Still, Grim says nothing.
It’s almost as if she’s waiting. Waiting for me.
I hear her breath coming faster.
I remember the times I caught her watching me in the diner.
I remember how it felt when she helped me with my seat belt in the car.
I remember her vulnerability in the alleyway...
I remember every moment she has touched me, looked at me, the weight of her gaze a heat that burned through my body.
I want her.
This is stupid. Ill-advised. Not a good idea.
But I step forward, and I wrap my fingers around her shirt collar.
“The phones,” she breathes at me then, her voice rasping.
I pause. There’s another bolt of lightning outside, and when I search her face in that heartbeat of illumination, I see desire in her eyes.
She wants me, too.
I take a deep breath, realize that it’s hard to breathe, that I’m panting. “The phones?” I murmur, my tongue thick in my mouth as I try to force out the words.
“They’ll be out, too. Along with the power. Betty’s fine, though, Bella. I’m certain of it. Trust me.” She sounds so pained that I freeze in place. Her scent overwhelms me: pine and moss and earth and wind...
I do trust her. This is already established, true and real inside of me, though I would be hard pressed to tell you exactly why.
My intuition
has gotten me this far, so...
“Is this okay?” I ask, as I rise up on my tiptoes, as I tug on her shirt collar. She groans against me, and then her hands are on my hips, the heat of her palms through the fabric of the robe shocking.
“You must.” It’s a growl, long and low. The vibration of her words seems to move inside of me, grazing my secret places.
I stop thinking about consequences, about shoulds and woulds, about every excuse that I use to keep my life tidy, organized, all lined up nice and neat.
I crush my mouth to hers.
It was easy to find her lips in the dark, as if my body responded to hers by instinct, the sort of instinct I’ve never experienced before. I knew what to do, how to move, and when I kiss her, she responds in kind.
There is rampant desire in her movements, in the way her fingers grip my hips, possessing them, the way her mouth opens and takes my own. Her tongue moves past my lips, her want marked by short pants of breath, a slow, delicious moan that eases its way out of her throat.
She moves her hands down to my rear, puts her palms on the backs of my thighs, and then she’s lifting me. Grim is strong—I knew she was strong—but the way she scoops me up, settling my legs around her hips and waist in one easy movement, is breathtaking, mesmerizing.
She pushes me against the wall of the bathroom, her mouth at my throat. She presses so hard against my center that I cry out in the darkness, my fingers grappling with the buttons of her shirt, needing to feel her skin.
But my cry, my moan, stops her, and she’s shivering against me. I can feel her skin beneath the palm of my left hand: she’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, so hot it’s almost like a fever sweat. I taste the salt of it on my lips as she quivers against me, as she otherwise remains still, like a statue, her hot hands under my thighs, her mouth open, wet, against my neck.
“Did I hurt you?” she asks, and her voice breaks on the words.
“What? No. No,” I repeat, incredulous. My center is wet against the fabric of her jeans, my entire body feels open to her, and yet she remains maddeningly still. “Grim, please,” I murmur, pressing my lips against her neck. “Please, don't stop....” My words are softer this time.
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