Grayson Hawthorne Book Novels & Stories

Pushing the door open without knocking first her scent hits my nose and I take a large inhale, it's like a drug I can't get enough of! The cabin is empty like I guessed it would be and I take a step inside to have a look around, the scent after her is still fresh and it can't be too long since she where in here. Hearing fast footsteps behind me I turn to see Grayson comes running inside in his wolf and sniffing around the cabin. "what is it?" I mind link him but he doesn't answer, it's like he is obsessed and sniffs around in the whole cabin before he turns around and starts to sniff on the ground.

Grayson lays me down a distance from the bank beneath the cover if branches, concern in his eyes and he held me close, yet I could tell that he was still preoccupied with whatever it us that agitates him so. "Stay here" he says getting up from where I sat. I thought about staying put as he asked, but then thought better of it, needing to see what made him suddenly so upset. There wasn't any need for secrets among us. I do my best to tip toe back the way I saw him disappear, hiding just behind a small tree with a wide trunk when I spot him near the bank his arm outstretched. An oak colored hawk lands on his forearm, looking oddly more comfortable than one should look in the presence of a pred

Coward. I didn’t hesitate. With a roar, I slammed my shoulder into the heavy wood. It cracked off its hinges and burst open with a satisfying crash. Papers flew, books tumbled from shelves, and Grayson, seated behind his polished desk, looked up with the calm arrogance of a man who thought he still had the upper hand. “Ah,” he said, slowly rising, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt like we were about to have a damn business meeting. “The little pup finally finds his bite.”

Grayson didn't let him keep it. He stepped forward once, twice, until Lennon had to tip his head back to hold eye contact. Up close he smelled like cedar and something musky. “You were late,” Grayson said, almost softly. “I… Sorry, traffic.” That was a lie. Grayson's gaze dipped to Lennon's mouth, then lower, lingering on the faint red mark peeking above his collar. When he spoke again, his voice was... deeper. “Traffic,” he repeated in an almost amused tone. “Interesting.”

Greenfield boldly inscribed beneath, everything up unto this moment felt too predictable and strangely insipid. Inside wasn't any better: the cold AC; black TV screen; the bookshelf that occupied the greater part of the right sage green wall, containing things on psychology, philosophy, and books on the human mind. He could even spot Ben Carson's "Think Big" written across the spine of one of the books. There was a large portrait of he, his ex wife, and his daughters anchored to the side of the shelf. They looked happy with their brooding smiles that stretches the jaw, silver teeth and a calmness from their posture...they were too happy even, only that in Aaron's head, happiness was relative

“Very male. Deeply irritating.” I nearly smiled. She continued. “But this is Grayson Hawthorne.” I frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means men like that do not vanish for pleasure.” She leaned forward. “He runs empires, governments call him, markets move when he sneezes. If he disappeared during the happiest moment of your life, then either he is a fool…” she paused, “or something happened.” I looked away. The problem was I had thought that too. Once. Before pride became louder.

Or maybe she just needed to have a moment to herself. Yeah, she did. Ugh, why was it that the first man she became intimate with was the man her cousin was to marry? And heaven's, she was lucky. Mark was hot, he was just the perfect person, he was taller, bigger and the dream guy. She rolled her eyes and and released a groan, threshing her hand in her short hair. It was then she took in the image of her room. A lot has changed in there, obviously now a visitor's room.

Gray her father seeks for her right away. The thought flew past her mind as if she never thought of it. Composing herself with a touch of trembling she walked to her father’s library hoping she’s not in any kind of trouble. She walked in straight in to the library bowing at her Father Mr. Gray Anthony, the richest and most feared man in the whole of New York.

Grayson’s terse text. She spotted him waiting beside his sleek black SUV in a dimly lit corner. Mr. Grayson, 48 years old, stood tall and imposing. His broad shoulders filled out his tailored suit. Silver hair showed at his temples. He radiated authority. A calm, predatory smile touched his lips when he saw her. “Raven,” he said simply. As she got closer she wondered what he had got on her bed on the text he sent and how bad it was. She stood in front of him and she suddenly felt like she couldn't breathe with the way the next few minutes played out.

Then his voice, low and rough; "Can’t sleep again?" I turned my head slowly. Grayson stood in the archway, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded navy T-shirt. Hair tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble, barefoot. Not as shirtless as last time but somehow more dangerous like this. More real. "Something like that," I murmured. His eyes fell to my sketchbook. "You are still drawing." "Helps clear my head." He walked farther in and stood a few feet away, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or leave. I could see the debate play out on his shoulders. I didn’t say anything.