Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)

Suddenly, a hand was there, lifting me.

Grayson?

My heart plummeted when my eyes collided with West’s warm ones. I’d gotten so used to Grayson always being there.

“Let’s go, Angel.”

I held on to West, crinkling the buttery fabric of his black suit, my head spinning, as he carted me to the servants’ quarters.

We were almost at the entrance when I blinked into the red-rimmed eyes of Grayson.

“What’s going on? Story?” He looked from me to West. “What the fuck did you do to her?”

“He didn’t do anything.”

I tried to push past him, and he grabbed my arm. “Are you seriously going to go with him?”

West ripped his hand off my arm, and they both stepped to each other, as if they were going to come to blows.

I can’t take it anymore. It’s been a nonstop rollercoaster since that day in the antique room. I feel like I haven’t had a minute to breathe. I haven’t slept. I’m nauseated all the time. In constant fight or flight.

“I hate you.” I shoved Grayson. I hate that you chose her. I hate that I still want you to choose me, even though I have no right. “I should’ve forced him to leave this place. The only reason I ever endured this torture was to be with him, and instead, I missed his death because of fucking Asheville. Because I was being your wife’s girl.”

I gripped the book, my uncle’s handwriting burning through the leather, searing my flesh.

His shoulders sagged and he took a step away from West. “Story…”

“I’m leaving,” I said. “Tomorrow.”

This was how it was supposed to be, but my hand lingered on his chest, his eyes throbbing, my fingers curling in the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Goodbye, Mr. Grayson.”

My eyes connected with Grayson’s as Westley led me out.

GRAY

* * *

My pacing wore the wood beneath my feet raw.

Story leaving?

Fucking leaving. I knew this was coming. This is what I’d been working toward since before the wedding. Getting her out, getting her safe, and trying to give my wife a happily ever after.

I’d fulfilled my promise to her and Woodsy, secured him a nice plot of land on the family cemetery. Of course, it’s an eye for an eye in the Crowne family and my mother wasn’t going to let Woodson Hale be buried in the family plot without a poun

d of flesh: a promise.

Never speak to Story Hale again.

Story was leaving anyway.

Leaving.

Fucking. Leaving.

“Grayson?”