Grayson Hawthorne Book Novels & Stories

Every problem had a solution. This didn't. This felt different. Bigger. More dangerous. And Savannah sat directly in the middle of it. That thought alone was enough to keep him awake at night. That evening the storm worsened. Thunder rolled across the valley. Lightning flashed over distant mountains. The manor felt warm by comparison. Safe. At least on the surface. Savannah found Grayson in the library. Which surprised her. Mostly because Grayson hated books. Not reading. But books.

“You’ve lasted this long because no one knew where you were.” “I’m not living if I’m still hiding,” I snapped. “That’s not surviving — that’s waiting to die slower.” He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the tension radiating from him. “You think stepping into open fire is the smarter option?” “Maybe not smarter,” I said. “But it’s mine.” Grayson appeared from the back of the half-collapsed hallway, his expression unreadable. His clothes were dark, his face drawn — too many sleepless nights, too many losses but his eyes, those sharp grey ones that always looked like they were analyzing ten moves ahead, were softer now.

"Will do. And Gray? Whatever's going on with your mystery woman... be careful. I should have an update on Joy Smith's husband soon." Grayson nodded, watching his friend climb into a waiting car before heading to his own vehicle. The drive home took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes where Grayson's mind raced with everything Nate had said about Prue, everything he'd observed, all the pieces that didn't quite fit together. His brownstone appeared, warm light glowing from the windows. He'd left them on this morning, not wanting to come home to darkness. Morgan's ghost still haunted these rooms sometimes, but he was exorcising her piece by piece. The bed had been the first thing to go.

Grayson returned home around quarter to seven in the evening. The estate was cloaked in a soft hush, peaceful yet warmer this time. His footsteps were light against the hard floor as he stepped inside, loosening his tie with one hand. And then he saw her. Aurora was curled up on the velvet sofa, a book resting in her lap. Her delicate fingers traced the edges of the pages as she leaned slightly forward, completely absorbed in her reading. A small plate of fruit sat beside her, an untouched slice of peach and strawberries resting on the edge.

The ones needed for the Rothmere case disappeared in ash. Now it hits. Not through thinking - straight into my bones. A cold sureness: this is real. Happening here. This moment. The book falls from my hands. A sharp crack echoes as it hits the ground. Suddenly I am standing, breath ragged, pulse hammering under my skin. Smoke lingers in memory, thick behind my eyes. Stumbling forward, I yank the door wide - Mrs. Greyson stands there, inches away. “Miss Rimestone! What is the - ”

Another, I stood in front of a familiar door, my hand on the doorknob. I turned the knob and stumbled inside. Grayson had been reading on the bed. “You are back early,” he said, without looking up. Then he sniffed and dropped the book right out of his hands. His gaze snapped to me, and he stood from the bed, the book forgotten on the floor. “Lillian, what’s happened to you?” he asked, looking me over. I shuffled toward him and collapsed into his arms. His body was so warm, I practically purred in his embrace. I rubbed my face into his chest, taking in his scent, leather and pine. Masculine and strong.

GRAYSON For the third time that morning, I had to start afresh because I had just been flipping pages but not paying attention to what was in said pages. Why hasn’t she texted or called? She had my contact, if she wanted to reach out, it wouldn’t be too hard so why hasn’t she? Bigger problems Grayson. Focus. Oh yes. I returned my attention back to the file in my hand. I successfully finished reading and groaned in frustration right after. It was another dead end!

They are as untouched and virginal as nuns. I scan the covers: Sun-tzu, Machiavelli, Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley. Anyone sitting in my husband’s office would think him a great reader. He’s not. My husband opens a book, he falls asleep. Curled on the leather couch, I recount my meeting with Detective Harrison for Gray. His face is a knot of concern. “He doesn’t know anything,” he says after I’m done. “If he did, he’d have used your name.”

But now, all he yearned for was to whisk Ava and Noah away to a place of seclusion and safety. This overwhelming urge made him feel feeble and impotent, like a whining and ineffective creature. He couldn't help but suspect that Harrison, his adversary, was well aware of his vulnerability. Seeking solace, Grayson welcomed Blake's return and relied on his brotherly wisdom as both a supportive figure and the Alpha.

Finley says and happiness seems to overflow within me. My fear once again vanishes. I have come to think of Gray Ranch as home, which is the main reason I came here last night, even after being warned. This is my home. These wonderful people have become my family. Their abilities are a little scary now that I have witnessed firsthand the damage they can cause, but I still want to be close to them. Close to Fin. "I would love that," I say softly and the vulnerable look in his eyes disappears.