Stolen Soulmate (Crowne Point 2)

“I’m sorry,” I said, saying the thing that had been weighing on me every time I did her hair or helped her into a dress. “I wasn’t supposed to be in that room. It should have been you. None of this should have ever happened. It’s all my fault.”

She chewed her lip, looking distant. “Maybe. Or maybe it was fate.”

“But you love him,” I said.

“I do,” she agreed. “I love him more than I thought I could. As much as I know it hurts you, I can’t wait to be his wife. I can’t wait for the wedding night. I can’t wait for him to be mine.”

Our eyes locked. Remorse rippled in her dark irises, but she wasn’t sorry. It was the same way, though I was sorry I’d stolen him, I wasn’t sorry for loving him, the same way I wouldn’t be sorry if I could trade places with her.

We were only sorry that our love had to hurt each other.

“But my grandma always said our fates aren’t a mistake.”

She placed her head against her shoulder, staring out the window.

Fifty-Three

STORY

* * *

My uncle’s condition was stable though not great. He was fading every time I visited him, and I kept wondering if each visit was the last. He kept talking about where he wanted to be buried. Here. At the grounds. I think he was starting to lose his mind, and it worried me. No servant had ever been buried at Crowne Hall. That was reserved for the Crownes.

Lottie was too beautiful, too kind—it was impossible to hate her. She let me visit my uncle whenever I wanted. So today I went down to see him with his favorite treat of cookies, but I froze outside the door, a laugh stopping me.

Grayson’s laugh.

I didn’t realize how much I’d missed it until it snuck into the cracks and crevices his absence weathered.

“My niece is starting to think I’ve lost my mind, Mr. Grayson.”

“You can tell her you’ll have a nice big plot of land, with a view of the ocean. Shit, we’ll get you a fucking mausoleum if you want.”

“I have. She looks at me with pity. Pity for the old man dying of cancer, who’s losing his wits.” Grayson laughed again and my uncle said, “Who am I supposed to say is making this happen?”

Grayson exhaled, and I imagined him stretching his long arms over his head. “My mother, of course.”

They both laughed.

My heart cracked, crumbled, disappeared into the wind.

I stayed outside the room, holding the tin of cookies, for thirty minutes, maybe an hour. Just listening to him talk with my uncle, at the happiness in my uncle’s voice and the ease in Grayson’s. I hadn’t realized a smile had found its way to my lips until the sound of a chair scraping against the floor wiped it off.

“See you tomorrow, Woodsy.”

Tomorrow? How often did he come?

Seconds later, Grayson walked out of my uncle’s room. It was only the back of him, but it was enough to send my heart into shock. In a brown leather jacket that brought out the gold in his messy hair. Grayson with dark-blue jeans that hugged his ass too well. Grayson with h

is big, messy heart.

He kept walking, hadn’t noticed me or didn’t care. But I couldn’t leave it be. I set the tin of cookies down to come back to later.

“Are you ever going to talk to me?” I asked his back.

Gray froze, two heartbeats marking the hope I had that he would turn around; then he kept walking, heading for the stairs.

“You promised!” I yelled. “You promised you wouldn’t ignore me. You promised you wouldn’t just disappear.”