Under the Lies

by Green, Sarah E.

Well. The time has come. No matter how much I had secretly hoped it wouldn’t.

  It’s finally over.

  And I have no idea of where that leaves me.

  Everything returns to normal. Or as normal as it gets here in Haven Harbor where art thieves control the city and the rich carry on ignorantly bliss. Everything goes back to normal except for me.

  My life.

  It’s not something I can hit the rewind button on and go back to not knowing. I now walk the streets of this city with my eyes wide open.

  A city built on lies, relationships forged by dishonesty.

  It’s been three days since Noah banished my sister. Three days of him and his friends cleaning up all the messes she made. Three days since I’ve seen him.

  I’m still at his penthouse, but it feels even colder than it did my first night here.

  I can’t go back there, I think as I walk across campus, leaving my last class of the day sans bodyguards. Now that my sister’s banished, I convinced Noah to let me ditch them.

  I could call Brin and see if she wants to meet for lunch. Except…I don’t want to really be around people right now either.

  Without a destination in mind, I let my feet decide the path walking down street after street until I’m in front of a familiar building. My apartment.

  The cement steps stare at me in invitation.

  I haven’t even been on this side of town since finding the letter. Couldn’t find any reason to. But I still have my key in my purse. It could be the perfect place to be alone for a couple of hours.

  To reclaim a security that was stolen from me.

  So I walk up the waiting steps, into the warm entryway. It’s a quick trip up the several flights of stairs and before I know it, I’m stepping through the threshold of the apartment I moved into when I was looking for a change.

  It looks the same, with some of my boxes still stacked along the far wall.

  The door clicks shut behind me as I move farther into the room, running my hand along the wall as I do. I walk to the bookshelf that held the flowers, which still sit there.

  No longer are they the fresh and intimidating flowers but dried out and brittle and decaying.

  No longer does the sight of them make my blood race.

  I was afraid to come back to my apartment because my safety was stripped away. That my skin would crawl and I’d constantly be looking over my shoulder for a threat that may or may not have come.

  I didn’t come back because I wanted to see where Noah lived. To get closer into his life, his world.

  This apartment doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

  And if I’m being totally honest, it didn’t feel like mine when I moved in. Maybe that’s why I dragged my feet with unpacking the boxes.

  Actually, I can’t even remember what I had left.

  Might as well get it done now. I’ll be back here sooner or later, whenever Noah gets done picking up the pieces my sister’s trail left behind. I could go back to Noah’s apartment and collect my belongings today. No need to wait for Noah to kick me out.

  I could leave today with my pride still intact.

  But when it comes to the heart, pride means nothing.

  And my heart beats in tune for a man that only wanted me for a pawn. Sure, there have been times where he’s said things that have made me question my role in this game he invited me to play. Where he’s acted like there’s something more between us than the box he originally placed me in.

  Which is why I’m not going to go back to Noah’s and pack up my things. I want to hold on to whatever part of him that I can for however long I can.

  I’ll accept whatever hurt comes along.

  Because I’m a fool for listening to my heart.

  But it’s the same heart that finds the paint and canvases in the boxes and doesn’t run away in a panic. Who doesn’t freeze when picking up a paintbrush.

  I decide not to unpack the boxes, after all. Instead I try something I haven’t done in a long time.

  Running into the kitchen, I grab one of the plates and dash back into the living room where I pull out the easel, stretching it out in front of the window overlooking the busy street and the light shines just right, and place a clean canvas on it. I drop a little paint of every color I can onto the plate.

  It feels so natural to dip one of the brushes into the paint and touch it to the canvas. To brush a single stroke of purple.

  An overwhelming feeling comes over me. The feeling of comfort and purpose and belonging.

  Tears prick my eyes as I continue to paint. A sense of grounding roots deep inside me. Stroke after stroke, color after color. It’s been so long, but it feels like I’m coming home. Before I even realize, I’ve painted the entire canvas.

  Nothing concrete, just an abstract of cool and warm colors.

  A little taste at what I’ve missed.

  A taste I want more of.

  Grabbing another canvas and refilling my paints, I start another. This time with a more definitive vision in mind.

  No longer am I able to hold back the tears.

  This.

  This feels right.

  Like I’m fully whole again.

  I can’t believe I’d denied myself this kind of feeling for so long.

  I mourned for so long in all the wrong ways, I was never able to heal. But now I can feel the ache, the hole in my chest start to fill.

  My movements become almost frantic as I race to capture the picture in my head, as I chase the feeling it’s creating inside me. Painting has always felt like breathing to me and it finally feels like I’m taking my first breath, crisp air hugging my lungs.

  I paint until my hand cramps and the sun sinks behind the buildings to make way for the moon.

  I paint until I’m speckled with colors.

  I paint with tears running down my face.

  I paint to heal.

  I paint to feel.

  I paint to get to know me again.

  I paint toward the future I want instead of the past I had.

  The painting, when I finally finish, is of happiness.

  Hours later, when I can finally drag myself away from my easel, I make my way to Noah’s.

  The sun has long since gone down. The people out have long since had dinner and are now looking to party. My hands are tight, cramped from holding a paintbrush for so long. I don’t mind it. In fact, it’s a welcomed pain that I’ve missed.

  My clothes are ruined, covered in an array of acrylic colors. And my entire body hurts from standing in the same position for so long.

  But I’m happy. Weightless.

  Painting and art has always been a huge part of my life and even though my muscles ache and I’m exhausted, I can’t wait for tomorrow. To paint again.

  I’m on this cloud as I ride up the elevator to Noah’s. A cloud I quickly fall off of as soon as the doors open.

  Noah’s standing in the hallway, waiting for me. Pan seated at his feet. Both are giving me a hard stare.

  “Where have you been?” Noah asks, low. I can feel the energy pounding out of him. He’s still but in that stillness lays a man on the cusp of losing control.

  I tell myself not to read into it as I step farther into the room, stripping off my coat and scarf and hanging them on the coat rack. “I went to my apartment.”

  It becomes deathly quiet. Noah looks pissed, so pissed I’m not sure he’s even breathing.

  “Why?” he finally bites out, a whip cracking in the air.

  Oh really? I raise a brow. He’s pissed about that? About me not coming back until a couple of hours after I usually do, but he doesn’t have to come home at all?

  I don’t think so, mister.

  “Because I wanted to.” I march past him and he reaches out, snagging my elbow.

  “Because you wanted to?” he repeats, dryly. “Because you wanted to. Of course.” He lets out a short chuckle in disbelief. “And you didn’t think to check your phone at all?”

  Actually, no. I
was so caught up in creating, the rest of the world faded away.

  My silence only fuels Noah, his face is pinched in anger. He pulls me into him. “You drive me fucking crazy, wanting to go up the wall with worry.”

  “You were worried about me?” I pull back to stare at his face, his clenched jaw.

  The look he sends me makes me wish I hadn’t asked.

  “I’m surprised you just didn’t track me down.”

  My words send a ripple of disgust through him. He pulls away from me and stalks farther into the room. “You really think I’d do that?”

  He doesn’t yell but might as well have in the way the words hit me.

  “I don’t know,” I admit, looking down at my hands before forcing my gaze to meet his. “I haven’t seen you in days, Noah. And it’s not like you’re an open book when it comes to sharing your feelings! I don’t know where we go from here, what we’re doing! Or” —now I’m shouting— “how you feel about me.”

  Noah doesn’t say anything, but he motions for me to come closer, to follow him.

  I do, with a stampede racing in my chest. I follow him into the living room. And when I do, the first thing I notice is the chessboard with our unfinished game. That’s not new. What catches my eye is that there are more pieces missing than when I left this morning.

  Only two remain on the board.

  A red king and a white queen.

  The king lays on his side in front of the queen as if bowing at her feet.

  What…

  The stampede gets wilder.

  I try not to get my hopes up as I turn around to find Noah on his knees watching me.

  The sight of him down there constricts my lungs.

  “What is that, Noah?” I ask around the tightness in my chest.

  “You’re not going back to that apartment, Sayer. Not unless you really want to, but I’m fucking hoping you don’t. I want you here. With me. For good. I want your crap all over the place, your hair in the damn shower drain. I want you, Sayer. I’ve waited around for you since prep school.”

  “What?” I breathe, the word barely reaches my ears.

  He says so much that makes my knees feel weak, my palms shake with nervous energy. But the words that wreck me the most?

  I’ve waited for you since prep school.

  “You don’t know the power you’ve held over me. Have always held over me. You make my life have more meaning than vendettas. More than revenge and anger and all the ways I’ve lived for all these years.” His deep blue eyes are brimming with emotion, alight with emotions he’s never dared said. “You make me feel grounded. You make me have another purpose.” He crawls to me on his knees and that sight alone as tears prick my eyes. He looks so vulnerable. So open and raw. “I don’t want to go another day without you.”

  He grabs my hands.

  They’re shaking.

  My chest tightens at the sight.

  He puts my hands over my heart. It beats strong against my palms. “Every beat I have is for you.”

  A choked noise escapes me as he keeps talking. “Everything that I am is yours. Everything I have I’ll give you. This heart? It’s yours. Don’t break it. It’s a fragile beast.”

  “I promise,” I vow around tears. Happy tears. Healing tears. “Now, stand up. Kings and devils don’t kneel.”

  He doesn’t budge. “They do when it’s to their queen.”

  I fall to my knees, then. Pulling his face to mine. Our kiss is slow at first, familiarizing each other and steadily building to ravenous where clothes are peeled off one layer at a time.

  And as Noah’s unhooking my bra and sliding it off my shoulders, down my arms, he utters a set of words I never thought I’d hear him say. Three little words that destroy me from the inside out.

  “I love you,” he rasps from the place his lips tease the hollow of my neck. “I never thought I would love anything, but I love you.” He cups my face, my shocked, tear-streaked, awed face. “I more than love you, Sayer Brooks. I worship you.”

  Words I never thought I’d hear, words I never thought I’d get to say back to him. “I love you too,” I mostly mouth, my words inaudible with all the elation building inside me.

  Noah Kincaid can love. His black beats a little red.

  For me.

  He loves me.

  And I love him.

  I survived the blue-eyed devil and came out with his heart.

  In all my years I’ve never felt like I’ve belonged somewhere more than by his side.

  I’ve spent my life looking for a place I belonged, never to realize it might not be a destination but a person who travels there with me instead.

  One Year Later

  “Fucking hell,” I curse, glaring at a set of narrow eyes from across the kitchen. “I can’t keep doing this.”

  I’m met with silence and a slow, deliberate blink.

  “Really? You have nothing to say?”

  More silence.

  My eyes cut into slits. “You—”

  Before I can finish, they turn and walk away from me.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Get back here!” I start after the retreating form when a soft laugh hits my ears.

  Spinning around, I find Sayer hugging the doorframe. An amused look on her delicate face. “What’re you doing?”

  “That cat of yours is out of hand. Look at this!” I swipe my hand over my countertops, holding my palm out so she sees all the white hair left behind by her little shit, who thinks my island bar is a perch for him to sleep. “He has no respect.”

  One of the rules I had when I couldn’t convince Sayer to let Pan go back to living with Reeve, was no cats on the counter. A rule he’s steadily broken.

  “He’s a cat,” she reminds me, like that makes a difference.

  Spoiler: it doesn’t.

  “So is Hook, but he knows how to behave.” I point to the black cat that’s sleeping on the cat tree I bought him, not giving a single damn.

  Hook is far superior. And I’m not just saying that because he likes me better than Sayer.

  He’s the perfect creature. Keeps to himself, doesn’t shed like a snowstorm, and only scratches at the tree. Unlike Pan, who’s made me replace not one but two couches because he decided he wanted to sink his claws into my soft leather.

  That’s right. This animal hating man now has two cats. All because he loves a girl and making her happy. When she told me she was thinking about getting another cat I told her not a chance in hell, but did she listen?

  No. She didn’t. The next day she came home with a black kitten in her arms.

  “I can’t believe you named him Hook,” she tells me, still hugging the wall.

  “What? Only you can name animals after characters?”

  Yeah, that’s right. I named him. Staying in theme of what Sayer named her cat after. Thea and Brin thought it was fucking adorable. But what else was I supposed to name him? Hook has a little snaggle tooth that peeks between his lips when his mouth is closed.

  It reminded me of a hook.

  Sayer shakes her head at me, the amusement growing as she pushes off the wall, walking toward me.

  I narrow my eyes. Why is she so happy? Usually, she’s not this expressive without at least two cups of coffee.

  Leaning against the counter, I take her in. She’s still rumpled from sleep, wearing only my hoodie and knee-high socks. Her blonde hair is a tangled mess, her gray eyes still a little dazed.

  She’s beautiful, my siren.

  A year of being together and my need, my desire, my everything for her has grown. Heightened to a place I never knew could exist. There’s a lightness in my chest that has never been there before.

  Happiness. I’m really fucking happy.

  Because of her.

  Only her.

  I’m still a ruthless, fast-fisted bastard but Sayer brings out this softness inside me that’s only for her.

  Running a hand up my chest, she presses up on her toes for what I think
is going to be a kiss only for her to whisper against my lips, “Where’s my breakfast?”

  “Delayed.” I grab her chin for the kiss she still hasn’t given me, but when I try to coax her for more, she pulls away. I sigh.

  “Why is it delayed?” She crosses her arms.

  “Because of your cat. I have to clean the counters before I can start.”

  “Don’t blame Pan.” She sounds slightly deflated, disappointed in my answer.

  “It’s his fault,” I argue, assessing her.

  She takes a step away from me. “Well, get to it, Kincaid. I’m hungry.”

  I watch as she walks out of the kitchen to grab Pan, snuggling him to her chest before I get to work on cleaning all the damn cat hair from the counter and start cooking.

  On top of two cats, I now have traditions. It happened accidentally, neither of us even noticed that every Sunday I’d wake up and cook breakfast until one Sunday when I didn’t, but Sayer deemed it a tradition so now my ass is always making a feast early Sunday morning.

  Surprisingly, I don’t mind it as much as I would’ve before she came back into my life. Especially when her entire face lights up as soon as the plate is in front of her.

  I’d do anything to have her face like that all the time.

  She’s mine. My family. Her and our two cats, though if Pan doesn’t shape up with his manners, he’s going back to live with Uncle Reeve, who now stops by just to see the cat. Sometimes we’ve come home to find him here, cuddling Pan.

  This is what she’s always wanted. A family. People who don’t want anything from her except love.

  And she has that. With me, with Thea. With Gabe, and hell, even Reeve. She’s a part of us now, of our fucked up dynamics.

  I still try to keep her out of the illegal dealings as much as I can, to not incriminate her in case anything was to ever go wrong, but when she’s on a mission, she’ll annoy the fuck out of me until I give her details. So she now knows what I’m doing when I go on extended trips, what’s keeping me up late at night.

  Everything. Sayer knows everything. All my secrets. All my thoughts.

  The only thing Sayer doesn’t want is to actually participate in Underground affairs. She graduated from grad school with her masters and is now working at the museum.