Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel

by Huntington, Parker S.

  Sometimes you win, and sometimes you learn.

  I swallowed my pride and took the L, wondering what the fuck it taught me. “You don’t care about Haling Cove’s location.”

  “Because you know me so well?”

  “I do.”

  I fidgeted with my fingers, telling myself my words wouldn’t condemn me. So what if I knew Nash? He’d lived on my dad’s estate for almost ten years. It’d be less normal if I didn’t know Nash.

  I continued, “I don’t like that I do, but it doesn’t change the fact that I know you. You don’t care about Haling Cove, but Betty cares about you. Haling Cove is close to Eastridge. That means she’ll be here during the grand opening.”

  My pulse leapt in my throat, nearly choking me, a reminder of what a pain in the ass it could be. Loving someone Nash loved seemed more intimate in the moment. As if it were a degree too close to him.

  “And?” he asked.

  I considered lying, but what would the point? He usually saw through it. Plus, lies cost more than truths, and I was broke with a capital B.

  “And,” I drawled, rushing out a breath with my words, “I want her to be proud of what I helped build.”

  His silence made my feet bounce against the linoleum. I waited for him to wash away that glint from his eyes. It made the room feel hotter, the floor less sturdy, and my stomach prick with little needles.

  I broke first. “Will you do it or what?”

  “Done.” That glint never left his eyes. If anything, it grew, a balloon near its popping point. “Eat the food.”

  Beside us, my phone buzzed. I shot my eyes to it, praying it wasn’t a notification from the Eastridge United app before I remembered I’d shut those off. Reed’s name flashed on the screen.

  I didn’t move to answer.

  Nash had picked up the sandwich again, but it hovered in his hands as he eyed the phone. “You’re ignoring him?”

  “He’s proposing to Basil.”

  I didn’t elaborate.

  “I don’t understand it.”

  “Neither do I.” I automatically bit into the sandwich when he held it up to me, then stepped back after I realized what I’d done. His amusement didn't waver as I glared at him, chewed, and swallowed. “I don’t like him like that anymore,” I added since he continued giving me a look that suggested I did.

  “Sure.”

  “I swear.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I mean it.”

  I swiped hair out of my eyes and frowned, realizing something. Reed never made me feel like I floated in the air while tethered to the ground. A feeling I only knew existed because it was the type of off-balance that engulfed me whenever Nash neared.

  As if the memory of who he used to be made who he currently was that much more enticing. The fighter who fed me turned into the billionaire C.E.O. who fed me, and not a single person in this fucking world could guess why, but at least I came closest.

  “Reed and I never would have been good together anyway,” I added.

  “I know.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?”

  Nash tilted his head and scanned my body. “Did Reed ever make you come?”

  “We both know he didn’t. Either your point is flying over my head, or it’s so meaningless, giving it my attention would be a waste of time. I could be listening to Danez Smith poems right now.”

  He ignored me, a glimpse of a smile forming. “Did he ever make you wet without touching you?”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Not everything in life is about sex.”

  Nash set the sandwich down. “Not my point.”

  That smile shined in full force, and it occurred to me that I didn’t remember ever seeing it. His smile could cure cancer, abolish student loan debt, and bring world peace. I wanted to pocket it and save it for myself. World peace sounded boring anyway.

  “Would you ever let Reed touch you like I have?” he asked, engulfing me with just his words. It was like we stood in the unfinished suite again, and I couldn’t get the taste of him off my tongue.

  I focused on my toes, wiggled them inside my Chucks, and counted each one to distract myself. “I can barely believe I let you touch me,” I muttered.

  Or that I’d let you do it again.

  “Did you ever feel like fighting for him?” His eyes read my face, collecting all the answers he needed from the dumbfounded expression pasted on it. “If someone looked at him wrong, talked to him wrong, touched him wrong, you would pick up a fucking sword and dive into battle without remembering to grab your armor?”

  “I’d fight for him,” I protested.

  I would.

  Reed was my best friend.

  If he called me up at four a.m. and told me he’d killed someone, I’d help him dig a damn grave outside a police station if he needed me to.

  Nash shook his head like he found me sad and pathetic. His confidence punished me, because it meant he believed in his words, and when Nash believed, I did, too.

  “You’d fight beside him, not for him. Two separate things. If he asked you to put down the sword, you’d listen because your stake isn’t bone-deep, a reflex, an untrained instinct. You have a choice in it, and that is the difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. You can control one, but you sure as hell can’t control the other.”

  “What do you know about love?” I spit out, hating the gap in our wisdom.

  In ten years, would I say things like this?

  Would I even know things like this?

  He slid off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the counter, stopping only to loosen his tie. “Enough to know you were never in love with Reed.”

  “But how?”

  “Because I know what love looks like. I had to watch Ma and Dad love each other, then lose each other. Your parents have the most money of anyone I’ve ever met, but mine are the richest people I’ve ever known.” He tore off his tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and folded his cuffs midway up his arms, stopping just when the penance tattoo peeked out. “If I tell you anything worth learning, it’s this. Love is the most expensive thing you’ll ever own. You pay for it with grief, tears, and a piece of your soul, but in return, you receive happiness, memories, and life.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Words matter to you, yet you throw the most important one around without understanding what it means.”

  Yes, but why does that matter to you? Why does it bother you enough to correct me? Why, why, why? I don’t understand you, Nash Prescott. Do you even understand yourself?

  “It was fierce loyalty that tricked you into thinking you were in love with Reed,” he added.

  “Because you know me so well.”

  “I do. Let’s cut the shit and stop pretending that we’re strangers. You never belonged with Reed, Little Tiger. He is domesticated. You are wild. To tame you would be a travesty. The sooner you get that, the sooner you can move on.”

  He said it so casually, so matter-of-fact, I almost didn’t process the weight of his words.

  Almost.

  If that was how Nash saw me, why—fucking why—were we always at each other’s throats?

  If Reed was the prince of peaceful forests and snowless mountains, Nash was the king of smoke, and ashes, and lies. He was the fire that ravaged those forests and the ashes that rained down on those mountains. I wanted to inhale his smoke, coat my tongue with his ashes, and bury myself in his lies.

  But smoke ruined lungs.

  Ashes tasted like death.

  And lies blinded dreamers.

  I was a dreamer.

  He was a nightmare.

  War brewed within me, fueled by envy.

  I blinked at Nash, wondering how he could stand there with a fucking Turkey & Ruffles sandwich held out to me like this was normal. He arched a brow as if to tell me my opinion of myself was built on a lie.

  We stared at one another until he brought the sandwich to my
lips again.

  I let him continue feeding me, accepting another bite. It gave me time to hide my uncertainty. Handling our proximity shook me, but handling his words crippled me.

  After I finished the sandwich, he washed and cut strawberries, then set a bowl of them on the counter. Sliding the freezer open, he scooped vanilla bean ice cream into the bowl and finished it off with Torani white chocolate and marshmallow syrups.

  Fucking hell, I felt like the Eastridge princess I used to be as I brought a spoonful of bliss to my mouth.

  The same ice cream flavor and toppings I would eat when a busted-up Nash broke into the mansion for ice.

  His eyes remained on my lips as I chewed. They followed a path down the column of my neck when I swallowed. I was a zoo animal, on display for a feeding show. Or maybe I was the prey getting prepped to be fed to the predator.

  “What about the question you owe me?” My voice sounded hoarse. Dry despite the ice cream that coated it.

  “This isn’t Twenty Questions.” Disdain dripped from him like the ice cream melting from the side of the bowl. “You overestimate my generosity. You already got a favor and free life advice. I’m neither a Magic 8 ball, nor Oprah.”

  Thumbing the falling liquid from the ceramic, I sucked it into my mouth, stopping when I caught his intensity.

  “Humor me…” I thrust the bowl out, hoping he wouldn't take it. “Or I’m suddenly feeling very full and would appreciate it if you could finish this. We wouldn’t want to waste this food, would we?”

  “Why does this feel like a fucking mistake?” he muttered, but he stepped closer with each word, his movements pressing the bowl back to my chest. His breath grazed my forehead, tickling my cheek. “What’s the damn question, Little Tiger?”

  “Singapore.”

  “Surely, that overpriced education did better than this.” Nash toyed with a strand of my hair. I wonder if he realized he was doing it. It might’ve been the first time he’d initiated contact with me. “That’s not a question. Ask an actual question.” His fingers paused. “Last chance.”

  “Why Singapore?”

  “Why not?”

  Slipping my hair from his fingers, I spooned more ice cream into my mouth. “An honest answer or I’m never eating another sandwich from you.”

  I hadn’t intended to, despite my stomach’s protests, but the trade-off was worth it.

  Nash shelved the syrups and faced me. “I like Singapore.”

  I realized my mistake too late. I’d asked the wrong question. Irritation blossomed in my chest, but I tamped it when I realized his redirects meant there was a lie to unravel here, a secret to be fleeced.

  I wanted it.

  I needed to own all his secrets.

  Craved it.

  If not for proprietorship, then for the sake of leveling the playing field.

  “Why that property?” I pressed, setting the finished bowl onto the counter. My breath tasted like strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, and marshmallows. I wondered what his tasted like.

  He rinsed the bowl in the sink and deposited it into an industrial dishwasher. “That’s a second question.”

  “It’s an add-on to the original question.”

  Nash shook his head and returned to me with a napkin in his hand. “Always breaking the fucking rules.”

  When he offered it to me, I ignored it, darted my tongue to the corner of my lips, and swiped off the white chocolate. He tracked the movement, whereas I tracked him.

  His throat bobbed. The napkin crumbled in his grip. I imagined he wanted to loosen his collar or run his hand through his hair. Three times, because I made him uncomfortable. I made him want to leave.

  “Always trying to make the fucking rules,” I volleyed back and cleared my throat, unsure how to feel about our proximity. The laps my blood raced didn’t feel very healthy. “No one made you king, Nash.”

  He spread his arms like an eagle in flight, taking up so much space he consumed me. “You’re standing in my kingdom, Winthrop. I own the air you breathe, the land you walk on, the company you work for. I own North Carolina.”

  I didn’t doubt his words for a second. It struck me how much the tables had turned. The fallen Winthrop princess. The unrelenting king who had taken her place. My heart rattled my chest as our fairy tale sunk in.

  Not Disney.

  Brothers Grimm.

  In which a cruel king rules over a stolen kingdom, and a poor servant lives in the tyrant’s line of fire.

  Only, I knew how those fairy tales ended.

  When the people ended.

  “All I’m standing on is a bed of false promises.” I begged my stomach to steady. It churned, full of favorite foods and lies. “You like Singapore, sure. That’s not an answer. Not all of it.”

  Nash leaned against the counter, hands shoved into his dress slacks pockets. “It’s the one you’re getting.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?” I edged forward until we stood toe-to-toe. I needed him to look at me—really look at me—and understand I was dead serious. “I’m not going to judge you, Nash. We push each other’s buttons. I say you’re cruel. You say my name like it’s a curse and a sin. But have I ever, for a single second, made you feel like I thought of you as anything less than you are?”

  “No.” The truth sat between us like an unwelcome visitor, lingering too long as we wondered how it had even gotten there. He rubbed at the back of his neck before returning the palm to his pocket. “The building next door.”

  “What about it?”

  “I stayed there once. Delilah and I ate at the restaurant on the roof. Outdoors. No ceiling. Shitty fucking food, but I felt high enough in the sky to touch Dad, far enough from Eastridge to breathe, and close enough to the ground to convince myself it was reality. It’s the only time I ever wanted to do this. Run Prescott Hotels, instead of burning it to the ground. I’m buying the building next to it and constructing a skyscraper that’s taller, better, closer to the moon.”

  I tipped my head back and eyed the ceiling, wishing we stood outside. “How was the sky?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Muttering a magic word, I sloped my head back to him. “Were there stars?”

  “It’s the city…”

  “What does that mean? Yes or no?”

  “No, there weren’t stars.”

  “A starless night,” I whispered, enchanted, unaware that I’d edged myself against him.

  It happened so fast.

  Our lips crashed together, our teeth clanging.

  It wasn’t a nice kiss, because he didn’t deserve a nice kiss. No matter how much the world thought of him, no matter the savior Eastridge and the press considered him to be, no matter how much everyone at Prescott Hotels or the soup kitchen raved about him, he didn’t deserve nice.

  Not from me.

  Never from me.

  He kissed me like the villain he was. Rough and unrelenting. I pulled at his body, skin, neck. Anything I could get my hands on. Sliding my tongue into his mouth, we warred with each stroke.

  His hands met my waist and lifted me easily. I wrapped my legs around his back, groaning when he placed me onto the countertop and ground against me. Whatever skin I could reach, I stole, touching it like it was mine. Pretending it was mine.

  And by the end, we were panting, and his shirt had a tear down the side, and mine laid somewhere across the room without him ever actually pulling it off.

  “Lagom,” I whispered, resting my forehead to his, chasing my breaths.

  He tasted like something permanent. Something that would be etched on my lips long after we parted.

  And it felt wrong.

  The kiss felt wrong.

  Not because he was my boss.

  Not because he was cruel.

  Not because everyone would hate us for it.

  Not because his brother was my best friend.

  Not because I used to think I was in love with Reed.

  But because nothing—and I mean fucking n
othing—should have felt this good.

  And anything that did?

  Had to be wrong.

  Nash breathed against my lips, still parted as he exchanged breaths with me. “What’s lagom?”

  My hands fell to his chest, thrilled by his heart’s tempo. It matched mine. “Not too little. Not too much. Just right.”

  I didn’t believe in perfect, but I believed in lagom.

  It meant right, but not necessarily perfect.

  And in a world filled with devious lies, it was a truth I latched onto.

  Nash dipped his fingers beneath the hem of my jeans, brushing his thumb against the crease of my thigh and sex. “Why not say perfect?”

  I shook my head, appalled by the idea. “Perfection is unattainable. It’s stained by the suffering required to chase it. Perfect is something you think with your head. Lagom is something you feel with your heart.”

  His fingers ran a path along my underwear, knuckles brushing so much skin.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked and moved back, but his grip tightened on my waist, shifting me closer for a moment before he released me.

  “I thought of a word.” He mouthed it like I do, looking a little ridiculous and endearing for once. “Is that what it’s like?”

  “Like a cure?”

  Nash’s eyes took in the space between us. “No.”

  He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t want him to. Not if he’d ruin magic words for me. He wielded the power, and I was too protective of words to risk it.

  “What’s the word?” I asked.

  Desperation didn’t suit me, but I needed to know.

  Nash brushed a thumb across my cheek and slammed his lips against mine. He kissed me like I was nuclear and he needed to destroy me to save himself. His tongue slipped past my lips, stroking mine. I gripped his shirt, and he gripped my hair, running his hands through it in a way that had me begging to pant cafuné.

  It ended too soon, before I could even appreciate that it’d begun. Disappointment slithered inside me, expanding at our distance.

  “It’s late,” he said, pulling away from me. “Security in the plaza makes their rounds in an hour.”

  My shirt had been torn down the middle like a vest, so I wore it backward and used Nash’s suit jacket to cover my exposed spine. He managed to look dangerous with the mussed hair and ripped shirt, whereas I resembled a kid playing dress-up.