“Where you think if you keep me in the dark you’ll keep me protected.”
I didn’t know where to start. I wasn’t trying to lie or keep secrets, I just…didn’t know how to say it aloud.
They’ll never stop looking for her, and you fucking know it.
There is no getting out of this world, Grayson. Not alive.
Everything in me said to take her and run, but what did that mean now? Would we have to run forever?
“I don’t know how,” I said honestly.
“You can tell me anything, Grayson. Why do you have thorns on your heart?”
Because I’m afraid I’m doing all the same things that got my father killed, left me fatherless, and left me hating him.
Because I’m worried our child will hate me too.
Because after two weeks of my grandfather carefully chipping away at the lie I was raised with, I don’t know if running is even an option.
But I didn’t say that, because I can’t say that. Not even to the love of my life.
“One percent, Snitch,” I growled. “One percent. When I agreed to this, I said if there was even a one percent chance of failure, we’d do it my way. Can you really tell me there isn’t a one percent chance?”
“That’s…” She swallowed. “It was always an insane stipulation…” She paused, eyes narrowing. Probing. That fucking Snitch stare that ensnared and enthralled me, like she was ripping apart layers I didn’t even know I had.
“You’re lying,” she said. “This isn’t working. We’re lying to each other. I want to tell you everything. I want to bleed with you—” she broke off, as footfalls sounded. West was walking back to her.
Her eyes shifted back to me, and she spoke faster. “But we only get these five minutes—if we’re lucky.”
I was raised with bedtime stories of dead kings. That Crownes are owed. The Crownes take. And I would one day rule. I used to think the world stopped and turned at my word.
That was a fucking lie.
I turned slightly. Body still facing forward, my head angled to hers. Hers did the same, neck arching unconsciously to keep my stare.
“If you insist on going down this road,” I gritted. “I can’t promise I’ll still be the man you love on the other side—”
My mother clapped her hands as a servant came on to the terrace. “Ah, there’s the champagne! I was beginning to think you we’re brewing it yourself—cider for Lottie, of course,” Tansy said, making a point to single out Lottie. “Wait, is Charlotte still not down?”
“Miss me, A
ngel?” West wrapped his arm around Story.
Champagne was handed out, even to Story.
She held the flimsy, crystal stem, staring into the bubbling gold liquid.
“A toast,” my grandfather raised a glass of champagne. “To a new era of Crownes and du Lacs—” The servant’s blood curdling scream cut my grandfather off.
Twenty-Two
GRAY
Josephine St. Germaine lay face down below a Christmas tree on the terrace steps.
Dead.
The red and green ornaments shined garishly bright, a macabre juxtaposition as a sheet was placed over Josephine’s pale, beautiful face.