He looked bored, and a little irritated.
It smelled like peppermint cookies and salt water. Gingerbread houses replicating major architectural works of art, like the Louvre or the Tower of Pisa, dotted the windows. Built with pristine sugar glass, candles shining from inside, and frosting dripping down the sides.
It was magical.
And I felt like I had the flu.
I didn’t want the reminder, didn’t need the reminder, that West had once been something other than evil.
“This is all lovely,” some random extended du Lac family member said.
“Thank you,” Tansy replied, as though she had any part in it beyond pursing her lips at the servants.
Everyone was acting as if last night never happened. As if Grayson wasn’t ripped from me and thrown to his knees…but I don’t know why I expected anything else. It was as much a Crowne tradition to ignore the destructive wake of the elephants in the room, as it was to use gold leaf in the eggnog.
It was hard to see through the thousands of twinkling stars and snowflakes Tansy had hung from the domed ceiling, but his piercing blue stare was unmistakable.
Grayson wore a heather gray pea coat and Burberry scarf. Sexy and casual—a little bit like the Grayson Crowne I used to watch, not the one forced into suits. He was already watching me, standing beside Lottie. They were the perfect Christmas couple in her red dress and his scarf to accent.
You’re lucky, Story.
Tansy’s words echoed in my head. She’d once said I was lucky because I got to be the mistress, because I got to look them in the eyes…
I never felt more unlucky.
More cursed.
I had so much to tell Grayson, but I couldn’t. Our nights had been stolen from us, our secrets held captive. He was only feet from me, but I had to keep my words to myself.
It was driving me insane.
I was going to fall apart in the middle of this. While Arthur not-so-quietly discussed the war on Christmas, and West’s grandmother lamented the good ol’ days, when women were women and men were men.
I shifted, wishing the dress chosen for me wasn’t so tight on the arms. The waist was loose, of course, and whoever designed it seemed determined to make up for it with torturously tight lace sleeves.
“Is everything okay, Angel?” West asked.
“I’m fine.”
I’m horrible. I’m bad. Why can’t I kick West out of my chest?
“Westley,” his mother called, flowing across the marble in her pale green gown. “Your grandmother has flown in all the way from France. Come say hello.” She eyed me. “Alone.”
West followed his mother across the ballroom to meet with an aged woman with no smile lines.
I was starving.
Sometimes it felt like my little butterfly fluttered in my stomach constantly.
My feet carried me across the marble, cutting through the dangling stars, to the food. Of course, Tansy knew how to do Christmas morning. All the food was like something straight from Santa’s house. Complete with shiny, twirly lollipops and gold and glittery cookies.
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.
A gift, one I didn’t buy.
Lottie slowly unwrapped the bow, peeling the silk away and revealing the gift inside. A pair of silver cast, monogramed baby shoes.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” my mother said.
“A perfect gift for the new Crowne heir,” Lynette said. “You can put them in the nursery.”
“It’s lovely,” Lottie said to me with no emotion. “Thank you.”
Most of the time, I couldn’t look at Lottie, couldn’t be reminded of my failure. But there were times, brief pain-sharp moments—like now—when I can’t not watch her. When she looks like she’s already dead.
It made looking at her impossible, but for an entirely different reason.
“At this rate, there will be nothing left for the shower,” Lynette crooned when Lottie opened yet another gift for the baby—a Swarovski pacifier.
“It’s beautiful,” Lottie said softly
Story deserved these presents. Being forced to sit for over an hour as Lottie opened gift after gift made me even more determined to build a future where she could sit beside me. There was so much I wanted to say to Story, but I couldn’t. So I said it with my eyes.
I miss you.
I love you.
If possible, her stony eyes cracked, reading the thoughts I couldn’t say aloud.
“It is, isn’t it?” Lynette agreed. “That one is from Jack.”
Lottie stood to her feet, dropping the Swarovski pacifier to the floor like the box had been on fire. It shattered on the marble.
“I think you should sit back down.”
Lottie swayed on her feet, staring at th
e broken pacifier.
“Oh well,” my mother started with a wispy smile, on her umpteenth mulled wine. “I’m sure he can replace it—”
“I don’t want him to replace it,” Lottie snapped.
A hush came over the room, my eyes torn from Story for the first time since we started. I’d never heard Lottie speak like that.
Ever.
Like she wanted to drench her words in acid. Jack shifted uneasily across from us, on a velvet wingback. For the fucking life of me, I didn’t know why he was invited either. He wasn’t a du Lac or a Crowne.
But I’d stopped asking why when they’d stopped giving me real answers.
“Sweet pea,” Lynette said in a dulcet, pacifying tone. “I think you should sit back down.”
Lottie swayed on her feet, staring at the broken pacifier. “Why the fuck is he even here?”
“He’s family,” Lynette said.
“No, he isn’t,” Lottie gritted. “He should be home with his real family.”
Lynette’s smile flickered. “We’ve known Jack for ages; he’s basically family. You know…” Lynette turned to my mother. “There was a time when people thought Jack and I would end up together.” Lynette giggled. “But there are too many hoops when you’re royalty….”
My mother nodded along to Lynette’s story, on board with trying to lock the elephant back up in its cage.
Then my sister scoffed. “Family.”
Gemma slipped further down on her white wingback, clearly having started round ten on the pills. “Abigail was supposed to be allowed back.” She eyed Story. “The whores can come—”
“Shut the fuck up, Gemma,” I gritted.
She flipped me the bird, then looked back to Story with glassy eyes. “No offense. I guess.”
Story shrunk into her shoulders. West leaned over, whispering something into her ear. I couldn’t tell if it helped her, or hurt her.
I wasn’t sure which option fucked me up the most.
“Abigail chose to marry…” My mom waved a hand in the air, clearly done with the subject. “I’m sure we have more presents!”
Story stared at her lap, jaw clenched. I needed to know what she was thinking. What made her brow furrow like that?
“Sit down, Charlotte,” Lynette said.
“I’m fine,” she gritted, though she swayed so far she almost entirely blocked my view. I reached for her elbow to steady her—but Jack beat me to it.
He rushed to her from across where he sat on a wingback, crushing a few wrapped presents in his wake, grasping Lottie.
“Charlie?”
I paused at how Jack looked at Lottie, the gentle way he pushed hair out of her eyes. It looked…loving.
With two hands, Lottie shoved Jack off. “I said I’m fine!”
“Charlotte.” Lynette stood to her feet, hand at her heart. “Have you lost your mind?”
As Lynette stood, so did West. He grasped his mother’s elbow, holding her in place. Story glanced at him, the wrinkle in her brow deepening.
Gemma turned back to my mom. “Abigail is supposed to be here—”
“She didn’t want to come, Gemma!” my mother snapped, then shakily reached for her mulled wine, looking away.
And so the room devolved into what I’d always remembered Christmas to be: dysfunction carefully drenched in alcohol, to be forgotten tomorrow.
So no one noticed Story stand and leave.
And no one noticed me slip after her.
Story looked in a tinsel-framed mirror just outside the restroom, eyes lost in some thought I wished I could read. She didn’t hear me come up behind her, and I’d already wrapped my arms around her when her eyes met mine in the mirror.
I placed my lips against her neck. “Merry Christmas, little wife.”
“How are you…” she trailed off, lips lifting in a gorgeous smile. “Merry Christmas.” She melted into my hug.
“What were you thinking?” I asked.
“Honestly? About something West just said to me…” She worked her mouth to the side. “He tried to make me feel better.”
I worked to keep my voice steady. “Did it help?”
She shook her head. “I hate it when he’s nice.”
I pressed kisses up and down her neck, until the tension leaked from her body.
“I have a gift for you.” Still with an arm around her, I reached into my coat pocket, handing her the postcard. “It’s so much less than you deserve…the sonogram from our visit to the doctor. When we heard the heartbeat. I went back and had them print it out—”
She spun around, smashing her lips against mine.
Her taste.
Her sighs.
Fuck.
“Those gifts should be for you,” I groaned into her mouth. “This Christmas belongs to you.”
She pulled back, staring at the black and white card. “This is perfect.”
“I have other presents for you, Story.” I dragged my nose down her cheek. “I have a mountain of them. For you. For our baby.”
“I didn’t get you anything,” she whispered.
“Don’t buy me things, Snitch.”
“But you can buy me a mountain?” Her gaze flitted to mine. “How is that fair?”
“It’s not.” My smile ghosted her lips. “I want to give you a lifetime of unfair.”
“I’ve been so worried about you,” she mumbled through my kisses. “I can’t do this. I need some way to talk to you.”
“I should have brought you a phone. I’ll get you one as soon as possible. Until then… Wait,” I finished, grimly.
She wrapped her arms around my neck. “I could write you handwritten letters using the servants?”
“No.” I gritted. “Do not use the servants.”
“But you did?”
“That was a risk I’m not willing to take again, but I had to last time. I had to see you.” I dragged my nose up her neck, biting the soft skin at her jugular.
Our lips met once more, her hands tangling into my hair.
“Why? I feel like…” She sighed into my mouth. “I feel like I’m five steps behind you on everything, five steps behind everyone, trying to play catch-up. I know you’re keeping secrets. I don’t know why. Please tell me what happened to you. Why did no one react when those guards forced you to your knees?”
Story pulled back, a wrinkle between her brows, waiting for me. Unintelligible raised voices drifted back to us. We were only a few feet from the sitting room, hidden just around the corner, and one of my mother’s many Christmas trees blocking the view of us.
“Grayson?” Story pressed.
Her dress was thick velvet, the kind of shit that takes another person to put on. Impossible to just slide a hand under or inside—unless I felt like ripping it again.
I slid down her body. “Because it wasn’t the first time.”
Her small hands landed on my shoulders. “What happens if you’re caught? Are you going to get in trouble for being here?”
I get a decent beating. “Nothing.”
Her eyes landed on my nose. “Don’t lie to me.”
She wanted to talk, and maybe we should’ve, but I didn’t have answers to the questions in her eyes. I don’t know how to save her, but I could make her feel good.
I squeezed her thighs. “Little wife, you don’t need to worry about me.”
I lifted the thick fabric of her dress, sliding under. The hoop beneath was large enough to fit almost my entire body, and I felt like some rogue in a long forgotten era. Sheer white stockings slid up her perfect thighs, and the sounds of Christmas faded away until it was nothing but Story, her gasp buttercream frosting sliding down my throat.
Fuck. I’d missed her cunt. She was so wet, her thin white panties outlined every pretty, swollen fold. What a perfect fucking pussy.
She gripped my shoulders. “Grayson, we need—”
She broke off as I slid my thumbs along the outline of her.
“We need to talk. Before—” She broke
off on a gasp as I pulled her panties to the side, exposing her. “—before we get separated.”
I decided I wasn’t going to rip her panties off. I liked the way they looked stretched around her cunt too much.
I parted her lips with my thumbs, and her words got thinner, threadier.
“I don’t…” I dragged a finger down the line of her cunt. “Want…fuck…oh…” Her pussy twitched for me. “To waste…don’t want to waste these minutes keeping secrets.”
“Trust me, Snitch.” I dragged her thigh over my shoulder. “This isn’t wasted.”
I buried my head in her, and nothing save small, ragged sounds left her lips. I couldn’t see her face, couldn’t see the way her eyes grow and then droop, how her lips part when she swallowed air.
How she begs with just her eyes alone.
I have to go by the way her pussy got wetter on my lips, how her nails dug into my shoulder and her thigh pressed into my head.
The sounds she made.
Fuck.
The sounds. Her soft sighs and her ragged, needy whimpers.
Those were all mine.
“Fuck,” I pulled back. “This is my pussy. It’s always sloppy and wet for me.”
“Don’t stop. Please.” She dug her heel between my shoulder blades. Needy.
Fuck. I shifted on my knees, achingly hard.
I liked her begging.
I trailed my finger between the line of her then—
Slap.
She gasped as my palm collided with her cunt.
“Say it,” I demanded.
“For you,” she breathed, nails biting into my shoulder. “Always for you—”
She broke off, then scrambled to stand up straight. The move forced me to an awkward position between her thighs.
“Snit—”
She fucking stepped on me, silencing me. I tried to slide out of her skirts, move out of the uncomfortable position, and she stepped on my hand.
I was caged between her thighs.
I wasn’t sure what was happening, and in any other situation I’d love to be between her thighs, but I’m crouched in a fucking ball.
No more than a minute later, I have my answer.
Destroyed Destiny (Crowne Point Book 4) Page 10
