Page 74 of Switching Graves
“With what? Your own personal savings?” Beatrix challenges sarcastically.
I keep my attention on Ava, who seems to have taken the news about Finley as bad as if someone personally offended her.
“It doesn’t make any sense. There’s a whole section about the Landry family in my bloodline history course. They all died the same night in a tragic fire. Finley died, too. His grave is marked with the same date.” She turns the journal over in her hands, eyes wide like she almost doesn’t believe she’s holding it. “But this refutes all of that.”
Furrowing her brows, she lifts her dark eyes to meet mine. “It’s not like Whitlock would forge something like this, right? He’s not that crazy . . . ”
I shake my head. “I’ve read quite a bit. I don’t think those details could be falsified.”
“Can we read them?”
My mouth clamps shut.Can they read them?I should have known that exposing them to the journals would lead to them wanting to dive in.
But am I willing to share Finley yet?
I suppose that’s my best bet for getting down to the truth about what happened and who is responsible for the lies that were spread.
With shaking hands, I slowly nod my head and the four of us spend the rest of the evening poring over Finley Landry’s words.
39
Raze
The quiet patter of heels ascending my loft stairs warns me of my visitor before she appears in my doorway.
Abigail Gracer leans against the door jamb with a sultry smirk and her signature bottle of red wine, those impossibly high heels shining bright against my dark, worn carpet.
“I thought you could use a break,” she greets in that breathy voice she seems to reserve only for me.
I remember the exact moment she sunk her hungry teeth into me. It took me two years after she started her career as a counselor, fresh out of graduate school, before I gave in to her constant advances one lonely, drunken night. Once I did, she all but claimed me, aggressively—and annoyingly—chasing off any other woman on campus who dared show their attraction around her. Despite the fact that I’ve made it clear that there is no chance of us ever moving beyond our late-night hookups. I was sure it would scare her away, but the commitment-phobethat she is, she happily agreed. She hasn’t released her feral grip on me since.
An Aetheris woman, through and through.
Leaning back in my chair, I tilt my head to gesture her over with a matching smile.
As irritating as she is, she sounds like the perfect distraction from my runaway thoughts right now.
She pushes off the door jamb and sashays toward me, setting the bottle beside me on my desk before rounding the corner where I’m seated. Settling her ass on my knee, she bends over so her dress rides up just enough to tease, then opens my bottom drawer and pulls out the two wine glasses and corkscrew I keep there for these exact occasions.
Straightening, she leans across to grab the wine, carefully placing her chest right in my line of view. She’s unbuttoned the top three buttons, allowing her full breasts to teeter over the edge, begging to be set free.
I watch her in numbed silence, feeling around deep in my pit of a soul for any semblance of excitement at the prospect of what’s to come. To my utter disappointment, I come up short.
“You haven’t been around,” Abigail pouts, uncorking the bottle and pouring both our glasses with seductive ease.
My hand finds her ass and gently caresses the skin just below her hemline. “I’ve been busy.”
She hums her disapproval, pushing herself backward to force my hand further up her skirt. She’s used to my nonanswers by now—knows it’s not worth her mental health to get all bent out of shape about it when I clearly don’t give a fuck.
Reaching toward her left side, she slowly moves the zipper down, revealing the red, lacy bra I gifted her last Christmas. The usual excitement that comes with her touch is nowhere to be found, and I’m still left with this heavy, dead feeling I’ve been carrying around. Instead of experiencing the moment asan active participant, my mind has me hanging above the scene, watching it awkwardly play out from a distance.
I know exactly what the problem is—or rather,who. I haven’t been right since the night I watched my disobedient little nightmare writhe around on the desk below me as she sought her release from that barbaric animal. Those few torturous moments play in my head on repeat like a broken film. The sick, intrinsic need to satiate her lingers behind as an itch I cannot seem to scratch. To prove myself as the greater man. But I refuse to acknowledge it as anything more than a minor annoyance. An inconvenient, primal desire that simply can’t be met, so there’s no use dwelling on it.
Abigail should be the perfect balm to ease my constant ache, yet I feel nothing with her.
Swiping her hand across my chest, she slinks around to the back of my chair, wrapping her arms around my neck to undo the top buttons on my shirt.
“I’ve missed this,” she coos into my ear, scraping her nails against the bare skin of my chest.