And then we were alone.
Three
STORY
West ran soft fingers along the welts on my knuckles, cursing low.
I didn’t trust him.
I was too aware that I was barely dressed, only in a silk robe.
“Two weeks isn’t enough time…” he said low, under breath.
All at once he stood up, leaving the room. I sucked in lungfuls of air. Hoping he was gone for good, but moments later, he came back with a first aid kit.
He tugged at the back collar of my silk robe; I held it tighter.
“What are you doing?” My voice pitched in fear, and I hated that.
“I need to see your back.”
“No.”
“You were hit—”
“I can do it myself,” I snapped. I yanked my robe away, but he held firm, refusing. “I don’t need you.”
“You do, Angel. You need me.” I could hear the mean smile in his voice. “Even if you don’t want me, you need me.”
Still, he let me go. He came around, setting down the ointment and bandages on the nightstand. That stupid, cocky trademark West smirk on his plush lips.
“Go ahead.” He waved a hand at the first aid. “Do it yourself, then.”
“I will…later.”
I stared at the ground, but his knuckles came to my chin, lifting so my glare collided with his mocking gaze.
His lips curved up. “You’re going to need more training. I can see your disdain for me clearly.” A moment later, he added, “You’re asking questions.”
My neck heated. Shit. “No, I’m not.”
He tilted his head. “Where am I sleeping? Why can’t we du Lacs come to Scotland?”
Those little snitches.
He grinned wide. “If you’re asking questions, you should ask me, Angel.”
“As if you’d answer my questions.”
He dragged my chin closer, lips heating mine. “Try me.”
My glare deepened. “Where are you sleeping?”
He flashed a crooked smile. “Do you want me in your bed?”
I ignored that. “Why can’t you go to Scotland?”
“Because this is Crowne territory.”
Crowne territory?
“Then why are you here?”
Something flickered in his eyes, but all he said was, “I already answered that, Angel. It’s the last place he’ll look for you. Any more questions?”
Why did you stop her from hitting me?
Why are you answering my questions?
Why are you nice sometimes?
“Shouldn’t you be with your fiancée?” I’d still yet to see her or hear any mention of her.
The humor in his eyes died. He blinked, and dropped me, standing to his feet. I watched him, curious, as he walked around my room, touching the bare accoutrements. He stopped at the window, fogged from the morning’s light rain.
“When will I meet her?” I prodded lightly.
He dragged his finger down the ancient glass, creating a clear line in the condensation to reveal dewy green.
“Do I know her?”
West laughed lightly. “It won’t work.”
“What won’t work?”
He turned, back to the glass, eyes narrowed on me. “Why don’t I give you a tour of the grounds? You told me this was where your uncle wanted you to be—” My brow furrowed. I did. “Maybe getting out of this room will show you why.”
I glared. It didn’t sound like an act of kindness, it sounded calculated. West wanted something, I just didn’t know what.
He shrugged. “I’m not going to force you, I just thought you might want to. There are many poems here. I know you shared your poetry with him.”
The first poem I ever shared with my uncle, was the first I ever wrote.
A poem I wrote and sent West.
Stop letting him get into your head.
Pain hit me sharp like an arrow and I spun away from West.
“Stop it,” I gritted. “Stop fucking pretending you remember. You wouldn’t remember the first thing about what my uncle wanted,” I whispered. “About me.”
A warm, sticky beat of silence passed, then West spoke softly. “Put my heart in a cage and treat it like a songbird.”
My heart stopped beating, the soft sounds of leaves rustling in the wind died. My breath was a hollow echo in my lungs. I was certain I’d heard him wrong.
“What did you just say?” I asked, barely louder than the breeze.
“Open old bone doors so my heart can sing,” West continued.
I spun around, heart in my throat, in time to see him kick off the window, eyes locked on my lips.
Put my heart in a cage and treat it like a songbird.
Open old bone doors so my love can sing.
Put my heart in a cage and treat it like a songbird.
Close the door, my love will settle back on its perch.
My song will wait until you return.
Stupid, lovesick words said by a stupid, lovesick teenager.
West didn’t stop walking until I was flush against the bed.
He leaned like he was going to kiss me, but stopped, breath feathering my lips. “My song will wait until you return.”
I sent West so many poems that went unanswered. I told myself he never got them. All this time he’d fucking read them?
“The bird fucking died waiting, West.” I straightened my back off the bed, meeting him eye for eye. “Someone else fed that bird. Someone else listened to that song.”
Maybe I wrote that poem for West, but it never felt more like it was meant for Grayson than in this moment, while I was caged, waiting to return to the true love of my life.
West’s eyes flashed to my collarbone, and before I could stop it, he fisted the locket Grayson gave me in his hand.
“You still seem confused about what you’ve agreed to. You don’t belong to him anymore.” His grip tightened, the chain biting into my neck.
“I will always belong to him. He’s mine, and I’m his.”
West ripped the locket off my neck. I felt the tear like it were a piece of my aorta ripping off. I stared at the dangling gold chains on either side of his fist.
“Bruises fade. Necklaces break.”
West turned, leaving and slamming the door shut.
My legs gave way beneath me, in stunted, gasping bursts. I gripped the silky bedspread so I didn’t slam to the ground, then fell, head in my hands.
Fuck.
This was the opposite of convincing him to trust me.
I guess if Grayson’s fatal flaw was not letting go, then mine was wearing my heart where everyone could see.
Where anyone can rip it from my neck.
Soon, the only sound was of rain tapping against the windows. It was soft and melancholy. For a while I sat like that, my head in my hands, then I remembered the phone. I quickly grabbed it from where I’d stashed it.
The blue light was glaring. Only at forty-eight percent now.
I couldn’t write Grayson directly, but I could log in to my secret Insta. Maybe if I whispered him direct messages, and I yelled the world my thoughts…he would hear one of them.
I know it was a long shot.
He was Grayson Crowne.
He didn’t check his DMs, but it’s all I have.