Forbidden Fate

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  Had Mrs. du Lac overheard?

  “You know the rules,” my mother said. “Whoever pulls the bigger one has to do the lucky kiss.”

  The bones snapped in unison, the crack echoing in the air. It came down to just West, me, and some loser I didn’t give a shit about with the biggest bones, so we all lined up to break the final bones.

  My heart pounded.

  Sweat beaded my brow.

  This felt like life or death.

  We broke, and West held his up, triumphant. I stared at my puny bone, gut sinking. It was like it happened in slow motion. West wrapped his arm around Story’s waist, dipping her like she was a dame in an old movie. She gripped his shoulders. And then…they kissed.

  Twenty-Eight

  GRAY

  * * *

  I dropped my bone to the ground as the paparazzi’s cameras flashed.

  I saw red. I saw black. Beyond the bright, burning spots blanketing my vision, West was kissing Story.

  He was kissing her.

  He was kissing my fucking girl.

  I didn’t realize I was heading to them until Lottie gripped the fabric at my bicep.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  Beat his face into the fucking floor.

  West and Story came back up, and she blinked, looking flustered as he laughed with the room and paparazzi continued to take photos.

  “There’s press everywhere,” Lottie said.

  I don’t give a shit.

  Maybe I had been deluding myself. Was she fucking him? The idea drove me absolutely insane. I couldn’t think beyond it.

  I zeroed on West’s hand on her waist. It isn’t the tight grip driving me mad. It’s the way Snitch touched her lip, with the dopey, blurry look in her eyes. That’s my fucking look. My fucking lips. She’s my fucking girl.

  Fifteen minutes passed as they took paparazzi photos. I picked the skin at my thumb absently with my pointer finger, zoned in on them.

  Be a good man.

  Pick.

  Honor your vows till the very end.

  Pick.

  Even if it kills you.

  Pick.

  Lottie left to go join her friends, but I stayed until Story excused herself, heading to the towering pecan fondant cupcake nightmare my mother had had specially designed for this.

  I followed.

  Feeling more like a predator than a man.

  She reached for a turkey cupcake, and I stepped behind her body, acting like I was going to reach for the cranberry tarts just beyond her. She stiffened as my body came into contact with hers.

  “Are you fucking him?” I growled into her ear.

  “He is my husband,” she said without looking at me.

  I wanted to bite her.

  Mark her.

  If West fucked her, he’d still see me. All over her.

  I stepped closer, pressing her into the table, jostling the tower of cupcakes.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, looking over her shoulder.

  “Did you forget, little nun?” I dipped my head so my words vibrated against her neck. “I told you your sounds were mine.”

  I stepped closer until my thighs caged hers. It was already crossing the line coming to talk to her. What was one more step?

  Her words were breathy. “I didn’t forget. Maybe I just don’t fucking care anymore.”

  I wanted to sink into her, into her soft skin and softer curls. Something about crossing lines, about being a good man, about not being my father, swirled around and got lost in her scent, one I hadn’t smelled in too long.

  “Bad nun. You’re lucky you have my baby in you…I’ll be gentle with your punishment.” My teeth grazed the side of her neck. She lifted a hand as if to push me off, and I took it, slamming it back on the table, covering it with mine. “Keep your hands on the fucking table, Snitch.”

  “Can he make you scream the way I do?” I ran my hand up and down her bare arm, the pads of my fingers tracing her goose bumps. “Can he make your eyes roll back like I do?” I whispered against her earlobe. “Can he make you come the way I do?”

  Her head fell back on my shoulder, and my chest collapsed. I lost focus. I lost sight of everything. The game I was playing vanished.

  Goose bumps—fucking goose bumps—sprang up on my arms. This is my girl. When our eyes locked, there was only raw emotion. I trailed my knuckle from her shoulder up to her cheek.

  “There’s my girl.” The words slipped from my lips.

  And then she blinked and shoved me off. She looked left and right, seeing if we had an audience. I grabbed her bicep before she could leave.

  Don’t fucking kiss him again.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to growl it.

  Those are my lips. Lips that ensnared me. Enslaved me. Of all the things fucking West could be doing, it’s his lips on her that drive me the most insane.

  Her nostrils flared as fury rose in her eyes. Fuck, I wanted her to do something—say anything, but she only pushed past me, presumably to go back to West, to continue to take their damn lucky kiss photos.

  I felt like I was possessed as I watched West and Story get their photos taken on the second floor. I couldn’t think or reason. I was just pure emotion, pure instinct. Rationally, I knew I had to stay away from her.

  It was the only way she could be happy.

  But West’s hand was on her waist, wrinkling deep emerald with his tight grip.

  Her head was on his shoulder, curls falling in tight spirals down the dark fabric.

  “They look good together. Maybe I was too quick to judge.”

  Lottie was with me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Story. The bright golds and ambers in the room suddenly seemed rusted. I smelled the smoke of the tapered candles that had burned out and hadn’t yet been relit by a servant.

  West and Story faced each other for another fucking kiss.

  My heart stopped.

  Pretty sure.

  I had reasons for keeping my distance, great fucking reasons. They all seemed pretty inconsequential as West’s red lips collided with hers.

  “Grayson!”

  I snapped out of it. Lottie placed her hand on mine, and I realized I’d been picking at my lip. That was the copper taste in my mouth.

  “Do you want to go back? I think we’ve well put our time in.”

  “Why is your mother up there?”

  She followed my line of sight. “I don’t know? Probably giving some kind of interview about her lucky son. Grayson? Let’s go back.”

  I didn’t like the look in her eyes. I didn’t like how close Story was to the two-floor staircase. One misplaced foot and she could go tumbling down it.

  Mrs. du Lac took a step toward Story, and I saw the clandestine heel she slid beneath Story’s ankle. She didn’t so much as look at Story, and if I hadn’t been paying attention, no one would have noticed.

  That was all I needed to see. I was running up the steps, ignoring Lottie calling at my back, sprinting until my lungs gave out. I yanked Story’s wrist, pulling her violently toward me just as Mrs. du Lac lifted her foot.

  Story fell into my chest, and I anchored her. Safe.

  Then the paparazzi turned their attention to us.

  Story looked at me, eyes wide. “What the hell are you doing?”

  What could I say?

  Your mother-in-law was about to trip you down the stairs because she suspected you’re pregnant with my baby?

  “Gray.” Lottie’s voice was at my heels, harsh. “Let her go.”

  My heart wouldn’t stop pounding. If I’d been a second late, Story would be at the bottom of the staircase. Reluctantly, I let her go.

  “She looked like she was about to slip,” I explained.

  “You saw that from how many feet away?” Lottie asked.

  If I explained what I saw, I’d have to say why I knew Mrs. du Lac had done that, and spill the beans about Story.

  I wiped my hand across my mouth as Mrs. du Lac
dragged her sparkling gold champagne to her lips, a warm smile on her face, attention elsewhere. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure.

  Maybe I hadn’t seen what I thought I saw.

  Mrs. du Lac walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

  “Let me go.” Story’s raspy yet firm voice pulled me out of the moment, and I looked down, realizing I still clutched her in my arms.

  Let her go.

  The rational voice in my head repeated it, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t fucking let go. It felt right to hold her against my chest, to wrap my arms around her and protect her from this fucking world.

  “Grayson,” Lottie said in an insistent tone.

  Paparazzi were furiously flashing photos, and our guests were taking their own. I knew I was feeding into the gossip we were desperately trying to kill.

  It was like ripping off skin, but I released her. The distrust in her eyes was a shard of glass in my heart. She looked at the floor, cheeks heated, and quickly moved to leave.

  “Story.”

  She kept walking, disappearing into the crowd.

  “Are you planning on getting her a bodyguard anytime soon?” I said, focusing my adrenaline on West. “A girl? It’s been almost a month.”

  A slugging, torturous month.

  West grabbed a champagne bottle meant for a table off a passing server’s tray and patted my arm. “Don’t worry, Crowne. I’m her husband. Why don’t you focus on my sister?”

  I ground my jaw as West poured champagne from the bottle into his mouth.

  “Do you even give a shit that your wife is being gossiped about all over the fucking internet?” I’d seen firsthand how dangerous that shit was with my sisters.

  West shrugged. “She’s a big girl.”

  I grabbed him by the collar. “Are you keeping track of the death threats?” I’m sure she was getting more than what I saw. I could only keep track of the public ones, and those were a lot.

  West laughed. “You sound worried.”

  “I am. She’s the fucking moon, and there are people out there who will snuff her out for no other reason than to bring her into their dark.”

  West leaned closer, so when he spoke, only I could hear. “You know, I don’t know why you’re so obsessed, Crowne. I already took her virgin cunt. She was so tight too.”

  Was he really going to brag about his rape? I fisted the fabric between my fingers and bit my top lip so I didn’t pound this asshole’s face into the marble.

  “But she was always so eager to please.” Even though I was still holding his collar, West poured champagne into his mouth, a mocking gleam in his eye.

  All right.

  I quirked my neck, then swung.

  “Grayson!” I heard Lottie calling for me to stop, but I was on top of him in a flash, pounding into his face until the blood from my knuckles mixed with his.

  I think Lottie continued to yell at me.

  I’m sure she did.

  But I was too far gone.

  I didn’t stop until Lottie ripped us apart. I stumbled back and West laughed. He was fucked up. He hadn’t fought back, and that twisted inside me.

  I didn’t feel bad.

  I felt…discomfort. I had pummeled his face until it shone with blood, but I didn’t feel any better, and West just laughed.

  “What’s so fucking funny?” I asked.

  “I won.” He laughed harder through his bloody teeth.

  “West, just go,” Lottie implored. “Please, just go.”

  West grabbed another bottle of champagne. “Happy Thanksgiving, bro.” He disappeared out the kitchen doors, chuckling.

  “You don’t think it’s fucking weird?” I turned to Lottie. “He hasn’t been cut off. And he just up and married Snitch when—” When she got pregnant, I almost said. “After our marriage. He’s a fucking snake. This whole family is.”

  “This whole family?” Lottie’s mouth dropped—fully dropped—and tears blurred her wide brown eyes.

  I realized what I’d said—what I’d implied—too late.

  That my wife was a snake.

  I raked my hands through my hair.

  “Lottie, that’s not…” I rubbed my forehead. “Shit.”

  I was messing everything up. I’m losing my shit. I know what I saw. I know what her mother did. I don’t know what the fuck West meant by he won, but I know it’s not fucking good.

  And the one person I could have confided in, is now the one person I can’t tell anything.

  Lottie’s lips were scrunched, her jaw tight, like she was about to explode with something. But after a moment, she exhaled.

  A soft, serene smile came over her lips.

  “The only one who has a problem with this marriage is you,” she said.

  She turned on her heel, leaving me in the aftermath of paparazzi and eager spectators. I didn’t realize my mother had joined me in the mess until her too soft voice drifted into my ear.

  “You swore to me you would let her go.”

  I jerked my head, finding her staring at the crowd, working her diamond pendant between her fingers. She slowly found my eyes.

  “Do I need to dig that man’s grave up?”

  I recoiled. “Mom—”

  “I’m trying to protect you. This world has taken my husband. My daughter. I won’t let it take you.”

  “She’ll be gone before Christmas,” I gritted.

  “Good.”

  Twenty-Nine

  GRAY

  * * *

  Hours after the party, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

  I’m the reason we’re all in this fucking mess.

  I alone.

  “Grayson?” I lifted my eyes, finding Lottie.

  She had changed from her soft golden gown into a Crowne Hall maid’s uniform.

  “What are you doing?” I croaked.

  I had no words, but Lottie didn’t wait for them. She approached me, eyes downcast, and fell to her knees before me.

  “Did you ever fuck her in her uniform?” Lottie asked.

  I dragged a hand across my lips. Now I can’t stop picturing it. Fucking Snitch in that dark uniform. Getting it as fucked and messed up as we were.

  “Lottie, this is fucked up.”

  Lottie dropped to her knees, small fingers going for my zipper. “Has she ever sucked you off?”

  The memory of Snitch’s lips on my cock blasted through me, making me hard.

  Can I kiss you like this?

  Lottie’s lips met my cock. “How does she suck you?”

  The way only Snitch can. As if she can’t get enough of my cock, like it’s her favorite fucking treat. With an addicting combination of innocence and bottomless lust in her walnut eyes that make me want to watch her for hours.

  You were my first everything else. My first kiss. My first blow job.

  I threw my head back on a groan at the memory of Snitch’s confession and Lottie took that as encouragement, sucking me harder.

  I promised on our wedding night that I would be Lottie’s husband. A good man. A man who loves his wife. A man who only thinks about his wife.

  I could come like this, in Lottie’s soft mouth.

  Except as Lottie sucked me deeper inside of her, I thought of Snitch.

  Maybe this was all I’d ever get again. All I deserved. A twisted, dark facsimile of my addiction. My wife and I could pretend this was an okay thing to do.

  Everything you do with Lottie, West gets to do to me.

  But if West put his mouth anywhere near her cunt I will rip his throat out.

  FUCK.

  I grabbed Lottie by her bicep, and dragged her off the floor. The veins in my neck throbbed like my cock, and my voice was raw and warbled.

  “Go change.”

  My heart pounded; sweat beaded my neck.

  She shrugged me off with violence. “I saw you watching her. You haven’t stopped watching her.”

  I pushed the hair out of my face.

  I needed air.

  I needed to
get out of this bridal suite that was becoming a coffin.

  “Are you leaving again?” Lottie asked.

  I looked back at her, in her fucking maid’s outfit, but she didn’t want my response. She just shook her head and disappeared up the stairs.

  STORY

  * * *

  “There’s my Angel,” West said when I returned with the ice.

  I sat down, pressed it against his swollen, bruising face. We sat in silence, the ice melting cold through the fabric. I’d barely had a second to breathe all night, jumping from one drama to the next. Now that I had a moment, my mind wandered.

  Did my mom ever feel this way? Put in an impossible position. Keep my dignity or deny my baby a father. Give her a father, live in shame.

  Pretty sure I know what she chose.

  I don’t want my baby to have the life I had. A mother who sold her pride. A father who didn’t acknowledge you in public, if at all.

  I glanced at West, who was staring back.

  When I eyed a new book on the nightstand.

  “What’s that?”

  West pulled away from the ice, reaching for the leather-bound thing. He handed it to me. It was a book of poetry.

  “I seem to recall you and your uncle reading Keats every Thanksgiving.”

  “You remember that?”

  “You were mine before you were his, Angel.”

  Every time he spoke like that made it harder to remind myself the reason I was here: to fucking leave.

  “What are you getting out of this marriage, West?” I asked. “You already know about me. My cards are on the table.”

  “If you’d let me kiss you, really kiss you, without some fucking tradition as our chaperone, you wouldn’t be asking that question.”

  I lowered the ice seeping through the cloth, wetting my fingers. I can’t let him kiss me. I…I liked it too much.

  “You never wanted to kiss me before.” I looked down, fiddling with the ice.

  He lifted my chin with his knuckle, forcing my eyes to meet his warm ones.

  “I was afraid.”

  Afraid?

  “West du Lac isn’t supposed to love a servant, Story.”