“Who was that for?” his cold voice drifted back.
“What?” I blinked through my tears.
Suddenly my hair was in his fist and he yanked my stare to his. “Who was that for?”
It dawned on me what he meant, and then I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.
“Lottie,” I rasped.
He dropped me.
I put my head in my hands as the door slammed shut.
I had only one fucking rule, and here I was breaking it, falling for the cruel prince once more.
Thirty-Three
STORY
* * *
I could never want you.
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but back on the island, through the open window the Riviera skyline was a blurry, twinkling treasure through my tears.
I stayed in that room until Grayson came and got me. Silently ordered me to follow him back to the boat. Grayson had spent the rest of the time at the club with Lottie, and now back home, I don’t know where he was, but I didn’t care.
I pretended to be asleep.
But I cried.
Messy tears I refused to let him see.
I heard the subtle, muted creak of a door opening. A moment later, Gray’s cold voice followed. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
I didn’t respond, hoping he’d think I was asleep. My chest couldn’t take it.
“Get up here, Snitch.” Grayson bent down, blocking the open sea window, and placed one careful finger below my chin, lifting it so I met his eyes. “Or have I broken you already?”
Grayson Crowne was the cruelest person in the world.
Cutting, ice-blue eyes. A nose slightly broken. Plush pink lips. Blond hair that was constantly falling out of his coif, messy like his personality, messy like his soul, messy like the way he’d kissed me when he’d woven my love irrevocably with his hate.
He lifted me up into his arms without another word and settled us into bed together, cradling my head on his bare chest. I noticed he’d taken off his shirt and had changed into sweats.
“What’s your safe word?” he asked.
“Mr. Crowne,” I croaked. When he made me choose one, I thought it was because we were going to be doing some kinky whipping and paddling Fifty Shades of Grayson shit. Not ripping apart my soul.
“Remember to use it,” he said, chest rumbling.
He stroked my hair. My back. Tears fell in a constant, hot stream down my cheek. I decided his sweet side was worse than his cruel side. Like the way the twinkling Riviera blurred with my tears, it blurred my picture of him.
“Why don’t you want to be a poet anymore?” he asked softly.
I wasn’t prepared for the question.
“Someone needs to take care of my uncle,” I said even more quietly.