With Story at my back, I couldn’t see her face. But I wasn’t worried.
“You’ll always be an outsider, West,” I said calmly. “What we have, you’ll never break. Never get inside. Never even touch.” I looked over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of her face. “Right, little nun?”
She stared at me with those big, mossy eyes like I was the fucking king of her universe. Then nodded before mouthing Neruda.
My lips tilted. There she was—my Snitch, my little nun, my wife.
“You’re so goddamn naive. Both of you.” Reluctantly, I looked back to West. “What’s your plan now? She’s not safe here, and you know it. Lottie just announced to the whole world that she doesn’t have a Crowne in her belly, and the entire world thinks the Cinderella of Crowne Hall is secretly carrying one. Do you really think our family gives a shit who the real father is?”
“It’s over. It’s done. Get the fuck out of my house. Get the fuck out of my town. I’ll give you ten seconds to get going, and after that…” I cracked my knuckles.
One…West glanced over my shoulder at Story.
Two…His bloody nose dripped onto his cracked lips.
He stared at us, eyes wild. “You should know better. Who’s the real monster, Gray?”
Five…“You.”
At seven seconds, I arched my brow. My muscles itched to end him, ruin him, regardless of the consequences.
But West swiped the blood from beneath his nose, stepping back toward the trees. “This isn’t fucking over.”
I watched him until he disappeared into the swaying, silent trees. I didn’t stop watching, even as the seconds faded into minutes, and the minutes faded into the wind.
“Grayson?” I flinched at Story’s palm on my shoulder.
I didn’t realize the tension in my chest, the mass of tangled vines wrapping around my heart, until her palm landed on my shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
I turned and seized her face, crushing my lips against hers, kissing until all that held her up was my grip. With the flicker of the moon between our lips, against her wet mouth I said, “You said you needed me.”
Fifty-Four
STORY
You said you needed me.
Grayson slammed his lips against mine and I kissed him back. Like I was dying—like I’d been dying. I could never get tired of kissing him—every kiss was a piece of his burning soul.
“I don’t—” I broke on a breath. “When did I say that?”
“You sent me a letter. Think, Story.”
The secrets I’d been keeping from myself, sending off to a version of him—was it possible he read them?
He dragged my lip out, stopping at the last minute, teeth hanging on the edge. “Tell me your words, little nun. I know you want to.”
He repeated the demand he’d spoken over and over again for months, but the frustration was gone from his touch, and anger no longer burned his tongue. With that, the floodgates opened.
I was the villain until you made me the hero in your story.
I should make you beg at my feet.
You said you needed me.
Grayson’s words spiraled around me—my words. My heart raced, my gut fluttered. I was hyperaware of everything from the tips of my toes pushing into the cold sand drenched with West’s blood, to the salty breeze blowing on my fingertips.