Maybe he had the same idea.
“Good evening, Story.”
Beryl Crowne.
My brain twisted and bifurcated, trying to remember a time when Beryl Crowne had addressed me directly. I came up blank. Had we ever spoken? He was the boogieman, the thing that went bump in the night but disappeared under my bed when the lights came on.
“What did you do to her? Where the fuck is she?”
I shook out of it.
Grayson was right there. His voice tugged on my heart like a vicious wire, each second I didn’t go to him leaving bloody marks. I took a step—
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Beryl said lightly. Dangerously.
I froze, unsure about my step. Beryl glanced at his watch, as if his words weren’t a threat. As if his grandson wasn’t combusting behind him.
Something was so off about all of this.
So wrong.
“Been waiting for you,” Gray growled, curling his fist in the fabric of West’s shirt, yanking him off his smushed cream bed. Like candles snuffed out one by one, slowly conversations came to a halt. “Been waiting so goddamn long for this, but I told myself I wouldn’t do this in front of her.”
West laughed. “Well, shit, she’s right here.”
At that, Grayson looked up. My chest screamed to yell his name, I was a songbird with its vocal chords ripped out.
I am here.
Right. Here.
But Beryl fucking Crowne blocked me.
West swiped the blood from his nose, drawing back Grayson’s attention. “I’m generous, Crowne. I could be persuaded to share. We could fuck her together.”
Heat and embarrassment flooded me at West’s words, at having someone like Beryl Crowne overhear them. Beryl continued to examine his wristwatch.
West leaned forward, his lips at Grayson’s ear. “I think she’d like that, Grayson. I’ll even be nice, I’ll let you choose between her pussy and ass. Which would you prefer?”
Something dark fell across Gray’s face, and he smiled.
I knew that smile. I’d only seen it once before, the night…the night I almost ruined everything.
Predatory. Wild. Unhinged. His canine reflecting the chandelier’s light. I knew what was going to happen before Grayson reached for West’s throat.
Claws scraped on my chest the longer I went without talking to him. I couldn’t let him do this. I might not have a voice, but I could have a reaction. I could fucking do something. I could let Grayson know he wasn’t alone.
So, I shoved Beryl fucking Crowne out of the way.
My heart jackhammered just thinking about the repercussions—but I should have realized the wrong then, when the crowd dwindled, when it was only us left in the once bustling ballroom.
I was too focused on him.
Grayson tightened his grip on West’s throat, a dead, cold look in his eyes. Something in Crowne Hall had changed, after all—Grayson Crowne. Broken. Unhinged. Wild.
I opened my mouth to yell his name, and the moment I sucked in air, Grayson’s head snapped to mine, piercing through the veil.
He knew my breath.
He knew my sounds.
He knew my soul.
He knew my everything.
In those two seconds Gray stared at me, West’s fist flew—a sucker punch landing square on Gray’s jaw. Gray stumbled backward, falling to the cold marble, eyes never leaving mine.
Instinctively, I dove for him—but West grabbed me, pulling me out of the air and against him.
Gray still stared at me; every hurt, angry, pained emotion bled through him and pierced me.
I’d stayed up imagining my reunion with Grayson. I’d imagined running into his arms, imagined the strong way he’d hold me, the bites he would leave on my neck, the kisses and sweet endearments he’d tattoo on my skin.
Little wife.
Little nun.
Even Snitch.
But our reunion was never like this, in the arms of West, with his lips on my neck as Grayson’s jaw purpled from his fist.
“What do you think, Story?” Still holding me captive, West lifted the veil from my eyes, like some kind of twisted wedding. “Would you like both of us?”
Eleven
STORY
This moment seemed like fate. Since the day Tansy Crowne found me on the floor of the antique room and planted the seed in my head, it never left, growing inside me, twisted and thorny.
The time when I’d meet Grayson Crowne as a mistress.
The seconds that followed could have passed for an eternity. Grayson still hadn’t lifted himself up, but his eyes were glued to me, the look in his eyes like a throbbing heart left to bleed on the marble floor.
“I—” I started, only to be cut off by West’s vicious grip tightening, bruising. A warning.
I missed you, I tried to say. I’m sorry.
My hand went to my bare collarbone. Would we remain the same? Would he still trust us? Trust this?
My heart pounded so loud it hurt my skull. I heard West talking to someone, but it registered as distantly as the waves crashing outside.
Slowly, Grayson stood up, never blinking, coming straight for me. I was too aware of the arm keeping me captive, West’s heat burning into my back. The closer Gray got, the more clearly I saw the pain. The stubble on his jaw, the bruises beneath his eyes.
Two weeks.
Two long weeks.
Had anyone watched him in that time?
So in these few stolen seconds, I drank him in.
Devoured him.
And the world faded away into nothing but my heartbeat and him.
He was still my Grayson, rose gold hair messy and unkempt like he hadn’t slept. His charcoal suit clean, but the tie messy at the knot, flecks of blood on the white shirt.
I was in a snow globe, everything super focused. The sheen on his plump lips reflective. The glare in his deep blue eyes hot and deep. He still had that effortless Grayson Crowne air, but beneath it something new lurked.
Rage.
He reached out toward my hand, toward where West had ripped his locket from me, and my heart broke for the question in his eyes.
“Grayson,” Tansy trilled in her soft bell-like voice. “Our guests are waiting.”
And the snow globe fell, shattered. I looked beyond us, to an empty ballroom that had only minutes ago been filled with Christmas Eve revelers. Now, it held Beryl Crowne, Tansy, and Arthur du Lac.
They stared at him.
At us.
My gaze drifted back to Grayson’s. His eyes were locked on my lips, and I could see the hunger in his eyes, like he was going to kiss me.
If he touches you, if you so much as kiss him, I get everything.
Even as I was held in a vice grip by the man who would destroy us with our kiss, I could see myself doing it. Could see myself throwing my arms around his neck and pouring my soul into his hunger.
I’d missed him so much.
His grandfather exhaled. “Give them time, Antionette. This looks like a touching reunion.”
Whatever I’d seen in Gray vanished. If I’d had a thousand words, I don’t think I could have described his gaze, as if he wanted to rip apart our two-week silence in a two-second look. All I knew was something was wrong, so very wrong.
Then the moment snapped in half.
Splinters lodged in my chest and fingers.
“You fucked up.” His voice sent chills down my spine, like he didn’t know if he should punish or eat me. “You lied.”
He turned, not bothering to look back over his shoulder.
Tansy called for the servants to continue the party, her bell-like voice raised to such an octave I knew she was trying to distract herself. Just like that, a zombie of partygoers flooded the room. I stared after Grayson long after the crowd had closed the hole. At the world around him, the watchful eyes that couldn’t help glue to his every movement.
I knew this day would come, when I’d have to answer for what I’d done.
The lie I’d used to sell my soul and save us.
I knew the fantasies of my reunion with him were just that—a fantasy. Because I couldn’t run into his arms, and he couldn’t kiss me or bite me now, not without dire consequences—but at least in all of those reunions, he was happy to see me.
West spit blood from his mouth to the floor, then wiped the remainder with the back of the hand not holding me.
“Aw,” he whispered. “You think he doesn’t love you anymore?”
Twelve
STORY
I escaped into one of the many guest bathrooms to hide.
To breathe.
Rather, West allowed me to escape, and I tried to stop the stomach cramps whenever I remembered that.
This bathroom was hidden away, and not many used it. When people waxed poetic about women’s bathrooms, I always imagined this one with its marble vanities and velvet chaise lounges.
I lifted my red veil over the crown of pearls. The mirror was too clean. Not a single smudge, and nothing like the foggy antique glass of Scotland. It shone my lies back at me.
He’s angry with me.
Of course he was angry with me. He didn’t get a single one of my letters. None of the confessions I wrote him, the warnings of what would come. We were supposed to do this together, and—
The sound of violent retching interrupted my thoughts. I swiveled my head over my shoulder.
I thought I was alone.
“Sweet pea,” Lynette du Lac’s soft voice filled the room like a summer breeze. “Let me get your husband. He should hold your hair back.”
I froze. Husband.
That word shouldn’t stab my heart, not when we’d planned to do it this way.
But he’s mine. He was my husband, not hers. Once again I was reminded I had no idea what had gone on since I left, how Grayson had handled the aftermath of the near desolation.
“Leave me alone,” Lottie’s miserable voice followed.
“If you refuse to get him, then I will,” Lynette cut.
I only had seconds to prepare, before Mrs. du Lac came out of an open stall and froze mid-step when she saw me. A brief moment of humanity slashed across her face—shock, anger—before she straightened her shoulders and applied her cold mask.
She came to the sink beside me, washing her hands slowly, delicately, as if I was nothing. In a dark emerald gown with fine gold detailing, she was every bit the elegant woman I remembered. She reached across me to grab a handkerchief embroidered with the Crowne seal.
“Good to see you finally embracing your role,” she said quietly, drying her hands. “See you don’t forget it.” She smiled at me sweetly, handing me the used handkerchief.
The urge to speak back was so strong it gave me a stomachache. I could tell she knew, because she smiled broader. In the end, I said nothing, and she left, the door shutting softly behind her.
I stared at the used napkin in my hand, hating myself.
Then Lottie groaned, followed by the unmistakable sound of vomiting.
I pulled at the threads of the embroidered seal. The last time I saw Lottie, she wished I would die. The last time I saw Lottie…she’d announced she was pregnant, and Grayson chose me.
Another groan followed, and I went to her. She was on the floor, both arms cradling the toilet, head resting on one arm as a pretty emerald dress similar to her mother’s pooled around her body like water.
Lottie lifted her head. “Mom, I told you to leave me—” She froze.
We both did.
Her, like she’d seen a ghost, and me with the cloth I’d grabbed for her midair, staring at her stomach.
Lottie and I were exactly the same months along, our stomachs rounded similarly. Unlike me, she didn’t have to hide it under an empire waist gown.
The whole world knew she was pregnant.
If anyone found out the baby in my belly was Grayson’s…
I swallowed past the lump in my throat, and thrust the napkin at her. She eyed the cloth like it would burst into a thousand spiders, but then she lurched, head back into the toilet.
I got to my knees, taking her hair in my hands.
“What are you—” she broke off on a lurch, and then for a few minutes, I held her hair.
Soon, Lottie calmed down, and I released her hair as she fell against the ornately carved wooden stall. I did the same on the opposite side. Her face was drained of color, eyes glassy and lips cracked.
Lottie du Lac, the beautiful billionaire heiress. The princess that was always meant to marry my prince. After a minute her eyes found mine, as if registering I was there for the first time.
“The last time we spoke, I wished you would die.”
I nodded…I remembered.
“I do, you know.” Her eyes flitted to mine, red, glaring. Then she blinked, looking away. “I mean, I don’t. I…I—” she broke off, eyes wide as she spun around vomiting into the bowl. I reached for her hair again, but she was finished quickly, and she leaned back against the wall.
“You look different,” she said.
I feel different.
“People have been mistaking me for you all night.” She grabbed the cloth hand towel without taking her eyes off me. “They keep trying to get me to speak out of turn.”
She arched a brow, noting that I hadn’t spoken a word.
“You’re wearing silver velvet and I’m in green silk but—” She threw up her hands.
Moments passed in silence. I think Lottie was feeling better, yet she didn’t move to stand, and neither did I.
“Why did you do it?” she asked softly, eyes slowly lifting to mine.
I had a feeling she wasn’t referring to me holding her hair back.
I worked my lips to the side. Which part? Our history was tangled in bad choices…bad, inevitable choices.
“You were supposed to leave after a month.”
I blinked, not sure what to say, because this was news to me.
“You were supposed to leave and then…he would learn to love me again. I was okay waiting for that. That…I could handle.”
She played with the soft fabric of her dress. She wasn’t angry, just resigned, as if reciting a sad part of history long forgotten.
Slowly her eyes wandered back to me. “He was going to give up everything for you. You won.”
I know I should stay quiet, but I couldn’t.
Not about this.
“And he would have been so miserable.”
Her brows caved at that, tears filled her eyes, and her ministrations froze in the fabric.
“I hate you.” She sounded like she was saying it more to affirm it to herself.
I didn’t do anything, I don’t think she wanted me to do anything. I think in a weird way, we were the only people who understood. We’d both murdered all the decent things inside us for love.
The same jagged shard had pierced both of us.
“I hate you,” she said again, with more emphasis, staring at me.
Waiting.
“I hate you too,” I said.
She exhaled a deep sigh, like good.
“Does Grayson know you’re this sick?”
“Hopefully I’ll lose it.” She shook her head and whispered so low I barely heard it. “It’s the least I deserve.”
Before I could say anything to that, she stood. I followed suit, as outside the sound of Christmas got closer—bells and giggles and orchestral music. She lingered, holding the handkerchief, a look in her eyes I recognized too well.
From Grayson.
It felt like she wanted to tell me something, but kept stopping herself.
What was she to me now? What was I to her? Lottie and I weren’t friends, we hadn’t ever been acquaintances. First, she was the woman whose happily ever after I stole. Then, the love of my life’s fiancée. Now my secret husband’s wife. My once sister-in-law.
Fate seemed determined to make us enemies, but I’d never once hated her. Not really.
Were we ju
st two hearts destined to collide?
So I did the thing I’d learned too well from Grayson. I stick my heart on my sleeve and bleed.
“Lottie, do you need someone?”
She blinked, and I saw it for a moment—fear, heartache, and self-loathing.
Then she hardened her face. “From you?” Anger washed her features. “Do you have any idea what you did?” She shook her head ruefully. “Maybe, or maybe not, because this is the real you, isn’t it? You act nice, but you destroy everyone. Do you have any idea what’s happened to him because of you? If you loved him, you would have left with him. You wouldn’t have left him.”
My mouth dried. “What happened?”
“The next morning, after Grayson didn’t run away with you…” Lottie opened her mouth, then closed it.
“What?” I gripped her arm. “What happened while I was away?”
Dread coiled in my gut the longer she went without speaking.
Slowly, her icy eyes met mine. “He’s a prisoner in this house because of you.”
Grayson Crowne, a prisoner in his own home?
I didn’t believe it.
I couldn’t.
“You’re lying.”
She tore her arm out of my grip. “I think that’s your specialty, Story.”
She spun on her heel, the door slamming shut behind her.
I stared at the closed door, her words spiraling on repeat in my head.
They poked at all the worries that had been burrowing holes in my heart.
Was this the real me?
Had I made a huge mistake?
And what the fuck happened to Grayson? Prisoner.
The door opened again, and I lifted my head, assuming it was Lottie. Instead, the servant I recognized from the day I’d first had tea as West’s wife stood before me. She had blonde hair and brown eyes, and had been kind enough that day.
Still, wariness filled my veins—were the servants planning some kind of revenge? I was exhausted at the thought. Too many monsters lived in Crowne Hall.
She thrust her hand out, revealing a silky piece of paper. “Read it then hold it over the candle until it’s nothing but ash. You are not safe.”
Destroyed Destiny (Crowne Point Book 4) Page 6