Heartless Hero (Crowne Point 1)

I turned my head.

He pushed one strand behind my ear. “Abig—”

Laughter cut him off, and he dropped his hand, taking a step back.

“Morning, Reject.”

Geoff, this time with Alaric. Another asshole I was unfortunate enough to be “friends” with by the forced proximity begot from wealth and power.

“Uh-oh, don’t make the reject cry. Look, her dog is already growling.”

I glanced at Theo, who oddly enough did look upset.

They kept talking, but I was focused on Theo. I don’t get him. He probably thought I’d been too asleep the night before to notice him say nice things to me—but I wasn’t.

One minute he’s hot, the next cold. When I show him any hint of sweetness he throws it in my face, as if he prefers me when I’m a bitch.

Geoff and Alaric walked outside, joining the others in their casual attire outside on the terrace.

Theo stared after them, a look on his face that made me shiver.

“People call me that all the time,” I said quietly. “You call me that.”

It was a moment before he acknowledged I’d spoken. So long I thought he wouldn’t. Then he looked down at me with a look so intense, so ripping, it cured my soul.

“Exactly. Only I get to call you t

hat.”

Then it vanished from his face, and I was summoned by one of my mom’s friends, forced to play Abigail Crowne.

THEO

I stood behind Abigail as she talked to some older woman with so much work done she had a constant Joker smile. We were on the upper part of the terrace. Above us, a tiered chandelier cast soft light, and Grecian columns slatted our view of the iron-blue ocean.

I rolled the bracelet in my pocket between my fingers, weathered from all the times I’d rubbed it during the years Abigail and I’d been apart.

You belong to me now, forever.

I worked the bracelet in my pocket harder, focusing on the blocky beads, not the arch of Abigail’s neck, exposed when she moved her hair over one shoulder. I could still feel Abigail’s skin beneath my fingers. She was a tempting lie, a promise I wanted to believe wouldn’t break.

The woman wandered down one of the two forking stairs to the lower deck of the terrace—probably to wreak havoc on Gotham—and Abigail was alone again.

“Hey,” I said. “Reject.”

Nothing. Still.

This was what I wanted. Abigail broken.

I was so busy working the bracelet I didn’t notice the music grow distorted, cacophonous, and shrieking.

“Someone switched her bow,” Abigail said absently. I glanced at where Abigail was looking. The cellist was red-faced.

A smile came—that used to be our move—but it vanished just as quickly. Abigail was watching her mother, brows drawn.

“Do you know what would really piss her off?” I asked, voice low so only she could hear. She tilted her head to listen. “Fucking your bodyguard.”

Her breath caught and she tried to cover it up by clearing her throat.