Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel

by Huntington, Parker S.

  I handed the documents to Brandon, who shot me a glare before shoving them into his briefcase. We left for the elevators together. He led me through the lobby with blood on his face. To an outsider, it looked like a weird group of people walking.

  Not even a perp walk.

  I wore no cuffs. They wore nothing to identify themselves as agents. The confidentiality clause Francine had placed came into effect as soon as I'd signed the document. Delilah and Francine flanked me with Brandon and his merry band of agents before and behind me.

  The colossal centerpiece had drawn a crowd. Within it, I spotted Emery. She stared at me with panicked eyes. Frozen. My fists clenched and unclenched. Dried blood cracked all over them.

  I ran my fingers through my hair. Once.

  We held eye contact until Brandon flung the door open. A row of black SUVs lined the front of the hotel. We headed to the one in the middle. He clutched the handle at the same time Emery sprinted out.

  “Wait!”

  Panic engulfed her face. She chased after us, giving me less than a second to react before she jumped on me and kissed me hard. The slit on her dress tore. I covered it with my palm, trying not to laugh at how Emery this situation was.

  (Of course, she was a verb, adjective, and noun.)

  Still clinging to me, Emery faced Brandon. “Please, just give us five minutes.”

  Why the fuck was she asking him?

  He offered her a shrug and stepped to the side with his agents, Delilah, and Francine. I ignored the crowd and focused on Emery. She loved words so much, but it looked like she had none for me.

  “I read your placard,” she finally whispered, threading her fingers together behind my neck. “You say I fixate on words, and you’re right. Yet, I’m here, wondering why I can’t put my feelings into words, thinking that love is too inadequate a description, and I realized it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because I’m not alone. I don’t need words to keep me company. Falling in love with you is like diving blindly into a book, not knowing it’s destined to be my favorite. Whatever’s more than love, I feel it for you. I am only ever going to be in love with you.”

  I popped a brow up, tightening my grip on her. “You more than love me.”

  “Yes. I don’t care if you have,” she glanced at Brandon and lowered her voice, “you-know-what that can exonerate Dad, and you didn’t tell me. Maybe it’s fucked up, but I don’t care about anything but us. I’m sorry I never said this sooner. I love you. I’ll wait for you. However long it takes.”

  “However long what takes?” The puzzle pieces clicked together. I set her down, so she wouldn’t fall with my laughter. Only she could make me crack up on the same day I signed a plea bargain. “I’m not going to jail, Little Tiger. I’m a witness. I made a deal.”

  Brandon piped in. “Confidentially.”

  “Brandon, seek help for your obsession with hearing your own voice.” I angled us away, shielding her with my body. “I made a deal with the S.E.C. I’ll serve as a witness against Balthazar, Eric, and Virginia. Your dad will be absolved. I’m not going to jail. I promise.”

  The girl with all the words—speechless again. My ego could get used to this.

  I tugged at her dress, using it to reel her to me. “Come back to me?”

  “Always.”

  Two Years Later

  I don’t believe her when she tells me she may be happy.

  My devious fucking liar.

  Her black hair flies everywhere, resembling a wild horse’s mane. Outside, the ground has frozen over with snow, thick layers that have hardened into crystal cement.

  Fire saves us from the frost. The flames flicker, shadows dancing on the wool walls. My Tiger looks like royalty, her hair glowing each time the flames climb.

  Red lips tempt me. Her gray eye—the color of moonstone—shines so bright, it’s almost colorless. The other is as frosty as Lake Baikal, a bottomless courier of wisdom, flecks of white battling the blue.

  Neither will win.

  There never is a victor with Emery.

  Only a battle.

  Constant.

  Fervent.

  Beautiful.

  A love that deserves chasing to fuel it.

  “There’s no may,” I enunciate. “You are happy to see me.” I try to flatten a few strands of her hair, but it’s useless, and taming Emery would be like taming a tiger. If I try, I’d be changing everything that makes her who she is.

  And I love who she is.

  I love her wild and reckless and fierce.

  I love her mine.

  “I thought you were done telling me what to do.” She turns to face me, nipping at my neck.

  “Outside of the bedroom,” I correct.

  “Outside of the bedroom,” she agrees, lips parted, two mismatched eyes darting to the entrance to confirm we’re alone.

  I’m not supposed to be here, standing in front of my fiancée, making fun of her flushed skin and the orgasm I just gave her. Gideon will kill me (he can try), unless Delilah gets to me first (she would succeed).

  “I’m not telling you what to do, baby. I’m stating a fact. You’re fucking happy to see me.” I flick one of her nipples through her dress and smirk. “Admit it, Little Tiger.”

  She shakes her head, and I accept the challenge.

  I grip her chin. Firm. Exactly how my fiancée likes it. She holds eye contact, so defiant, I want to flip her over and sink into her again. My lips dip to press kisses on her collarbone.

  No matter how many times I kiss her, claim her, mark her as mine, it will never be enough. The way I crave her is insatiable. It’s proof of immortality.

  I reach behind her and undo the zipper to her dress before circling around and tracing her spine with my tongue.

  She spins and swats at my face. Her fingers scratch my eyes, eliciting a curse. “I just zipped that up.”

  “And I need your pussy to warm my cock up.” I grab her fingers and place them on my erection over my suit slacks. “It’s so cold, I can feel my balls shriveling up.”

  “They are not shriveling up.” She squeezes me once as if she can’t help herself, then nods to the center of the yurt—a fucking yurt, that’s how whipped she’s got me. “The heater is on, Nash.”

  “Two logs of wood and a packet of matches from Prescott Hotels does not constitute a heater.”

  She’s about to argue. She always does. I lick my lips in anticipation, loving this foreplay we share. Every word, every glance, every touch—an appetizer until the second I’m inside her.

  Reed interrupts, entering the yurt without knocking. “I would have knocked, but there’s no door.”

  Emery squeals at the sight of my brother, clutching onto his shoulders. “Is your mom here? I’m so glad you didn’t get lost.”

  Her dress is short, a horrible idea for a wedding in Norway in the middle of September. I told her this, but what the fuck do I know? It’s forty-something degrees out, the beginning of the cold season. Chilly but manageable, especially when her nipples have been permanently hard since we set foot in Norway.

  “Yeah,” Reed drawls out, nodding to me. “Everyone’s waiting on y’all to come out.”

  Reed is here as Emery’s maid of honor. He’s not my biggest fan, but I’m no longer his worst enemy. We’re getting to a point where we’re content in each other’s company. Ma says we’re one step away from being brothers again. Emery acts like it’s a foregone conclusion, and maybe it is. After all, I’ve started to accept a lot of things are inevitable.

  Emery squeezes Reed’s hand. “Give us five minutes.”

  When he leaves, she returns to me and rubs at the lipstick stain she left on my suit. Dad’s suit. Emery tailored it for the occasion. I almost regret not stripping out of it before entering her, but fuck it. Dad would want me happy, and I am.

  Balthazar is in jail. Not some billionaire retreat with security guards for show. An actual jail, with prison bitches, yard fights once a week, and world-worn men who hate ric
h pricks like Sir Balty.

  Cartwright is locked up in the same joint, his assets frozen and his son so broke, he has no money to send his dad for the prison dispensary. Dude can't even afford instant ramen packs. He exchanges favors to eat.

  With Balthazar’s assets frozen, Virginia moved to a trailer in a small town in inland North Carolina. She still lives there, hawking anything she can from her previous life as a Winthrop. It’s not much, since I bought the Winthrop Estate and gave it back to Gideon.

  “We’re getting married,” I whisper, ego brimming at the way Emery can’t help but smile every time I say it.

  “Thank God.” She nudges my shoulder and bites down on her lower lip. “I was getting sick of you sliding ‘my fiancée’ into every sentence.”

  “You were not, and you’ll pay for lying.” I swat her ass once before leaving, turning back in time to see her wink at me.

  “I’d expect nothing less.”

  Reed and Gideon are at the entrance of the yurt, waiting for Emery. I nod at them both and take everything in.

  Tromsø, Norway is the kind of place you visit for the first time and never want to leave. Emery fell in love when we flew here last year to balter under the stars and Northern Lights, so I popped the question with the ring I’d been keeping in my pocket.

  Above me, the emerald, blue, yellow, and pink streaks fight for dominance in the sky. It’s the same mating dance each time.

  Our first time in Tromsø, we star-gazed every night. (I stared at Emery. She stared at the sky.) She always rooted for the lilac, but the emerald won every time.

  I asked her why it matters.

  She squeezed my hand and said, “The lilac reminds me of your dad. When I painted the cottage mailbox black, Virginia yelled at me for not behaving like a lady. Your dad patted my head and told me, It’s okay. I’ll like the pink for you.” She stared up at the sky as if her attention would spark more life into the lilac. “I guess I want the underdog to win this time.”

  It looks like it’s no different tonight, the emerald swaying, nudging all the other colors out of its path. In front of me, a sea of floating candles leads to our makeshift altar of crimson rose petals scattered across the snow.

  I wait for her amidst the roses. It takes longer than I anticipated, or maybe I’m just impatient to marry the fuck out of her already. Delilah stands beside me, laughing at my mom, who’s already crying.

  Reed is the first to leave the yurt. Delilah swallows her snort. He strolls down the aisle with a black bouquet of roses cradled between two palms until he’s directly across from her.

  “Shit, it’s cold. Does anyone else feel their balls shriveling up?” Reed mutters, even though—aside from me—the only other human male within hearing distance is Tiger Bro (short for Broduski). He’s the vegan, tie-dye shirt-wearing spiritual guide Emery hired to marry us.

  We ignore Reed.

  Dermot Kennedy’s version of “Lover” plays from white speakers hidden in the snow. Wind whips thousands of rose petals into the air. They fly around Emery as she walks past rows of floating candles, an arm clutched to Gideon.

  The Northern Lights turn her skin different colors, lighting up the lace gown she wears, the same black color as starless nights. A crown of black crystals, gray moonstones, and dark gray diamonds sits on her untamed hair, attached to a massive black veil.

  She looks like a goddess come to life.

  Durga walking this very earth.

  A tiger roaming her territory.

  When Gideon places her hand in mine, I press a kiss to her knuckles and part the veil, taking in her face.

  “You changed,” I accuse.

  “I knew you’d sneak in and see my dress.” She lifts a brow, daring me to argue.

  I can’t. She’s right. I lasted an hour before I dipped into the yurt to, well, dip my dick inside her yurt.

  Tiger Bro begins the ceremony.

  I say my vows as a rare gold overtakes the emerald in the sky. When it’s her turn to say her vows, she stands on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear.

  One word.

  A secret for us to share.

  Ya’aburnee.

  I have no fucking idea what it means.

  She doesn’t elaborate, just smiles a secret smile that makes me love her more. A second later, she slams into me, knocking me against Tiger Bro as she presses her lips against mine. I swipe a hand out, blindly pushing Tiger Bro away. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I drag my tongue against her lips.

  Emery grazes her teeth along my bottom lip. I want to lay her down on this snow, strip her bare, and lick a path from her toes to her lips.

  She pulls back before we maul each other in front of an audience. Our foreheads rest against one another.

  “What do you want to do, Mrs. Prescott?” I ask.

  Low, just for her to hear.

  “Balter,” she whispers against my lips and presses another quick kiss to them.

  She dances under the stars with our family, her head thrown back, absolutely no rhythm to the movement in her body. When she begs me to dance with her and promises to make it worth my while, I do.

  With her in my arms and our family surrounding us, I notice something.

  Above me, the lilac has taken over the sky.

  Pink and purple streaks have consumed the other lights.

  The underdog has won.

  Nine Years Later

  “I fucking swear, I can’t stand this shit.” Nash scrubs his face with his palm. He leans his head against the back of the couch, staring at our ceiling like the television's existence is an insult to him.

  My eyes dart between the two twin eight-year-old demons sandwiched between us. “Language!” A half-hearted scold.

  “We hear ‘shit’ all the time, Mom.” Hallie glances at me, wide eyes the same color as Nash’s. “Last week, Mrs. Kimberly was teaching us about the Egyptians trading in the Red Sea. She kept talking about their shits.”

  “She meant ships.” Lawson pinches Hallie’s arms. He has my eyes. One blue. One gray. “Mrs. Kimberly can’t pronounce anything for shit through her retainers.”

  I cannot believe Lawson and Hallie shared my womb at the same time without killing each other. They share the same black hair and literally nothing else. Not even the same gender. Lawson is pale and ruthless, whereas Hallie is tan and sweet.

  Nash’s fingers inch toward the remote.

  I dig a fist into the white cheddar popcorn and toss a handful at his face. “Don’t you dare.” The kids squeal between us as it rains popcorn. I hip-check Lawson and ask, “What do you think about the movie?”

  Lawson glances at the screen and shrugs. “Cinderella’s hot, I guess.”

  “Lawson, she’s eleven years older than you!”

  “So? Dad’s ten years older than you.”

  I shut up, because the kid’s got a point. “Hallie?”

  She puckers her lips and squints her eyes at the screen as if that’ll help her form an opinion. “She’s really clumsy, but I’d want to be her. I like her dress and her shoes.”

  “Unbelievable,” Nash mutters, but the kids hear him. They throw more popcorn at his face.

  The front door opens and slams shut.

  The kids jump off the couch and shout, “Uncle Reed!”

  “Where are your kids?” Nash asks him when he enters the living room with his wife.

  It’s still weird seeing Basil’s face without the permanent scowl etched onto it, but here we are. To top it off, Reed’s wife helps me run my company, a non-profit fashion line that takes recycled materials and turns them into one-of-a-kind pieces. The proceeds go to soup kitchens across North Carolina. Nash calls me a bleeding heart, but I know he likes it.

  Reed presses a kiss to my temple. “Ma stole them for a few hours.”

  A second later, the kids whisk Reed and his wife away. Nash shuts the T.V. off the first chance he gets. His fingers meet his temple and rub. I roll my eyes at his dramatics and flick his arm.

&n
bsp; He latches onto the arm and yanks me to him.

  “Ya’aburnee.”

  The word brushes against my temple. I mouth it back, a smile tipping my lips upward at the secret vow we share.

  Ya’aburnee is Arabic for you bury me.

  It is the hope that you will die before your one true love because you cannot bear to live without them.

  There's magic when we say it, but it doesn't come from the word.

  It comes from us.

  Fin.

  Talk to Nash:

  Want more Nash? You can message him on Facebook here: https://shor.by/messagenash … (Yes, he answers, and he’ll keep you up-to-date on ALL things Cruel Crown, including Delilah and Reed’s books.)

  Sneak Peek:

  Stay tuned for a sample of Bastiano Romano, a mafia romance about Asher Black’s cousin and best friend. Read on Amazon, Kindle Unlimited, Audible, or Paperback!

  Chloe, I keep flashing back to the little moments, wondering why they’re the ones I remember the most. I miss your minutiae, every small quirk that made you…you. This book’s for you—and every book after.

  Rose and Bauer, my absolute obsessions. I love you. Thank you for making my life better. I smile more, laugh more, and live more because of you two.

  L, thank you for loving me with your actions and not your words, because we both know I’m into jerks. LOL.

  Heather, thank you for putting up with my craziness! You’re always there for me. I appreciate every conversation, phone call, and message. You are so invested in my career. I have no idea what I did to deserve you, but I’d do it a thousand times over again. I’m so blessed to have you in my life.

  Ava, you nut case. I’m pretty sure you are responsible for 115 of the 116 hours I spoke on the phone during the month of October when I was supposed to be writing this book. I don’t know whether to thank you for them or curse you for those hours. (We were productive, right?) Obviously, I love you. I’d love you more if you upgraded your WiFi, but I don’t think the world can handle that type of love.