I reached for one, when a hand grazed mine. I sucked in a breath.
Grayson.
I lifted my eyes, meeting his pulsing blue ones. He’d reached across the cookies, palm landing on mine and igniting a shiver and fire of goose bumps. He hadn’t moved his hand, covering mine atop the same sugar cookie.
Maybe here I could tell him my secrets, whisper I love him, and wish him Merry Christmas, and no one would know.
“Gr—”
He squeezed my hand so hard I lost my breath, it stole my voice. His eyes cut to the side, where Crownes and du Lacs, and the extended family of each, surrounded us on both sides.
This was how I would spend my Christmas with Grayson—with my husband—in stolen touches and stolen glances. In ephemeral taunts, like the scent of sugar cookies reminding me of the lips I couldn’t have. I can’t wish him Merry Christmas, he can’t kiss me under the mistletoe, but he could hold my stare for a few seconds as he glanced his fingers over mine.
I leaned closer, biting my bottom lip. His eyes dropped to it, half-lidded.
Who needs to die for you to realize this isn’t a game? That your kisses have consequences.
But I wasn’t not going to do anything.
I just wanted…
Still hovering over the same cookie, I intertwined my pinky with his, and he smiled.
That. I wanted that. My Grayson smile—a hand fell on my back, like ice water down my spine.
West had returned. “Story, I don’t think you’ve met my grandmother.”
“I don’t think your mother wants me to meet her,” I gritted.
“I don’t think I give a shit,” he said simply.
Our pinkies were a tenuous connection, and I stared into Grayson’s deep blue eyes, wishing he could read the words in my head as West wrapped his arm around my waist.
“You’ve been here a while, Gray,” West said.
His smile faded when he looked to West. “There are a lot of options.”
West grinned. “Sure.”
West pulled me from the table, and my connection with Gray snapped. West steered me toward the severe woman, and I looked over my shoulder at Grayson’s dying smile.
Nineteen
GRAY
There’s a dark holiday seething beneath the surface of Crowne Hall’s Christmas. A version where my sister passed out in plaid beneath the pine needles and twinkling lights because she had taken one too many pills again.
A version where my mother drank until she pretended she doesn’t have any pain left in her heart.
A version where I—the old me—gambled for companies, islands, and people with monsters worse than me in this very room.
And now there was a version with the love of my life on the arm of a psychopath. My wife had been taken prisoner across from me, and I was supposed to open presents like nothing had changed.
“We still have so many presents,” my mother said. “Why don’t you give Lottie one of yours, Grayson?”
Everyone looked to me, waiting for me to give what I’d bought my wife and future child. My eyes landed on Story, whose hand was pulled in West’s lap. A tight grip. Too fucking tight.
My mother waved for a servant, who reached for a black box from the row of gold and black bows.