Startled, she lifted her face from the glass. Soft, nearly imperceptible sobs reached her ears.
Griffin was crying.
He’d buried his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved as he tried in vain to muffle his despair. Apparently to keep himself together until she finished rambling. Rae swallowed down a sob. His grief was tangible, more powerful than incense.
Sensing her appraisal, Griffin dragged his hands from his face. In a flash, his gaze turned to steel.
“I’ll kill him for what he’s done to you.”
“Wait. Griffin, no.” She took a step closer, hesitated. “I didn’t tell you so you’d take revenge.”
“He’s a dead man.”
“Griffin!” Stunned, she wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you hear yourself? You’re not being rational. Stop talking like a crazy man.”
“Mik has to pay for this. I want him to pay. Barring that, I’ll settle for seeing him do a long stint in jail.”
“No.”
“Now, hold on. Rae, we can’t let him get away—”
“No!” Lifting a hand, she thwarted further protest. “You’re forgetting about Quinn. What will it do to him, if I drag his father through the courts? Assuming I even can.” She had no idea of the statute of limitations on rape. Nor did she care. “It’s over, Griffin. You’re behaving as if this happened tonight. Deal with it—I have. I’ve made my peace with the past. You must do the same.”
“How can I, after what he’s put you through?”
“Because I’m asking you to.”
Surrendering to her decision, he rose. This time when he approached, he didn’t wait for an invitation. He bundled her into his arms. Griffin was a large man, but he’d always been uncommonly gentle. With the lightest touch, he steered her cheek to his chest. Held her against the uneven thump of his heart as grief shuddered down his spine.
Never before had Rae witnessed his tears—his ability to display strength and vulnerability, all in the same instant. It was moving, heartening. The sensation of safety spilled through her.
Leaning fully against him, she closed her eyes.
They stood holding each other for long minutes. After Griffin had brought his emotions under control, he brushed his cheek against the crown of her head, asking, “Does Mik know he was Lark’s father?”
“I’m not sure.”
Sensing the evasion, he tightened his hold. But his tone remained level.
“You don’t know for certain.”
“Griffin, I think Mik suspects Lark was his child.”
“Based on . . . ?”
“When I was seven months pregnant, I saw him on Chardon Square. He made a wisecrack.”
“What did he say?”
“I can’t recall. Something about my condition. I had a major baby bump by then, swollen ankles—the works. The way he looked at me . . . I knew he’d put it all together.” On Griffin’s sturdy back, Rae let her hands cling fiercely. She dispelled the memory. “Don’t ask me to dredge up the details. I can’t.”
“Forgive me.” He tipped up her chin, rubbed his nose against hers. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter.” Then his eyes widened. “Quinn is Lark’s half brother.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re—”
“Raising Quinn now. He’s eighteen, Griffin, but he’s missed a lot. Kids raised in negligent homes rarely mature on time. I plan to remedy that. This may sound strange, but I feel closer to my daughter now. Knowing I’m giving her half brother safe harbor. Knowing I’m giving Quinn a chance to develop and mature, because he’s a great kid. He’s becoming such a sweet young man—I’m so grateful he’s come into my life.” Rae’s eyes were misty, her nose runny. Without thinking, she dried her nose on Griffin’s shirt. Which was gross, but the gesture put soft lights in his eyes. Then she added, “On the outside, Quinn seems incredibly different from my daughter. On the inside? There are lots of similarities. The patience with complicated tasks. The ability to focus on one thing with single-minded purpose. Lark used that focus to create art and do complicated puzzles. Quinn can follow a detailed French recipe without missing a beat.”
“Mik has the same focus,” Griffin conceded, “but manifested in a different way. He can tear apart a vintage car’s engine and put it back together again. The other mechanics at the dealership stand in awe of him. I suppose Mik’s an artist, in his own way.”