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.