Stolen Soulmate (Crowne Point 2)

Then, with his thumb still pressing on my tongue, he put his cigarette out on my shirt. My chest bottomed out. Utterly mixed up and lost in the pleasurable feel of him against my tongue and the acrid smell of burned fabric and ashes.

“You really shouldn’t be worried about Abigail right now, Snitch.” He slid his thumb from my tongue, roughly wiping the spit off against my cheek. “When I get back, you better have some useful information about the girl I like.”

I rubbed my lip, stuck on Gray as he talked with his sister. I don’t know what’s going on with me. Gray is a briar. Each layer you pick at, you cut and bleed.

But I can’t stop wondering what’s at the center. What if there’s something beautiful?

Or maybe I’ll just continue to bleed.

My eyes locked with Abigail’s.

I should’ve looked away.

I know I should’ve.

But I couldn’t.

I saw surprise on her face, confusion, then anger. Could she see the humiliation on mine? It was almost like Grayson knew she could see us. He stepped directly in our line of sight, blocking her. For a stupid moment, I felt something. It fed into that part of me that kept grabbing at his thorns. Maybe he stepped there on purpose. Maybe he was trying to keep me for himself.

I shouldn’t want that.

And yet…

I shook out of it, making sure to walk away before she looked back in my direction. I’d just looked Abigail Crowne in her eyes. Somehow I was more of a servant than I’d ever been before, shackled to Grayson Crowne, and yet the lines had never been blurrier.

I wandered from the beach back into the Hall. I had to find something to give Gray, something that would fix what I broke, or in two months I would give him everything. But I wouldn’t find it up in the light and sparkle.

Crowne Hall had many secret doors that led to a labyrinthine underbelly. Maids and servants and cooks and servers worked under the house, while people like Grayson stayed up here.

I pushed open one of the many “secret” doors and slammed face-first into someone coming out. Whatever he was carrying fell to the ground in a crash of broken porcelain and smashed food. The man bent down and started to clean it up. He had closely cropped white curls, a light-gray suit, and only slightly weathered hazelnut skin.

“Uncle?” I asked, surprised. Uncle immediately stood up, turning on his heel to go back down the winding stairs.

“Uncle,” I whispered, running after him. “Uncle, wait. Talk to me.”

“They are expecting these items; you know how it goes. Crowne comfort above all else.”

“Wait, stop, let me explain.”

I wasn’t sure how I would explain, but still.

We wound and wound down the staircase until I could faintly hear the sound of the real servant party. Someone yelling Shots! with pop music.

“Uncle!” I grabbed his arm.

We stopped at the bottom of the stairs, light melting in from the hallway.

“I have nothing to say to you, Storybook,” he said.

My face caved in in anguish. Storybook. A name has so much power, doesn’t it? Like a name given by a mother who didn’t really believe in fairy tales, but loved to scam the princess out of her pumpkin and the prince out of his castle.

“Please, just—”

He spun on me. “What the hell are you doing? You were almost out of here!”

I sucked in a breath. My uncle never swore.

“Leaving was your plan. I never wanted to go.”