Destroyed Destiny (Crowne Point Book 4)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  My heart. Because it always belonged to her.

  “Your shoulders look strong, Atlas,” she whispered, fingers curling into the fabric above my shoulders.

  I lifted my eyes, finding her stony hazel ones.

  With my free hand, I gripped the back of her neck, pulling her forehead to mine. “I thought you fucking died.”

  “I came back,” she said, husky against my lips. “I promised you I always would.”

  Her lips teased mine, begging me to kiss her.

  If I kissed her now, I wouldn’t stop.

  I’d fuck her on the grass while the world watched. And I wanted to. I wanted to slide inside her and pound until the feeling holding my chest hostage dissipated—the one that reminded me every minute how close I came to never holding her again.

  But I needed to know something.

  “Where is she?” I growled against her lips. “Where is my daughter?”

  STORY

  “Gemma!” Gray bellowed, throat rough and ragged with the yell, after I’d told him where Sonnet was—with his sister.

  Anyone still gathered on the lawn froze, turning to stare at Grayson. I didn’t blame them, the way he’d yelled demanded anyone in a nearby radius to stop.

  “She’s inside,” I said. “Hiding her in her wing.”

  Without further word, Grayson dragged me inside. His grip bruising my wrist; he pulled me down the halls, yelling Gemma’s name like an invocation.

  Gemma ran out of her wing, eyes wide. “What?” Her eyes bounced between me and Grayson. “Did it work? I… I’ve been watching from my window but I have the worst view—”

  “Where is my daughter?” Grayson growled.

  Gemma looked to me. “Is it over?”

  “Where is my fucking daughter?” Grayson snarled.

  “All right, okay, I see how it is.” She threw up a hand. “Watch the baby, Gemma. Save my life, Gemma.” She walked back into her room, muttering.

  A moment later, she came back with a sleepy-looking Sonnet.

  Gray completely froze. He gave so much away in his first look at our child. I wished I could forever commit it to memory.

  His love shone in the way his pink lips parted, his blue eyes gleamed.

  Then his jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and he took a deep breath. I saw every thought, every scenario, running through his head—all the ways he’d have to protect her.

  “I did everything we discussed,” Gemma said. “I’ve had my music loud so no one could hear them”—them meaning Lottie’s child as well—“But no, don’t tell Gemma the important things. Apparently I’m not America’s Princess, I’m America’s fucking washcloth. Did we fucking win? Is my grandfather gonna come strolling up these halls—”

  Still gripping my wrist, Grayson snatched Sonnet from Gemma.

  The minute Sonnet hit his chest, Grayson’s knees buckled, and he fell to the marble. He held Sonnet to his chest, his fingers white with desperation, eyes closed.

  Gemma’s mouth dropped, even she at a loss for words.

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “We won.”

  Tears fell from his red eyes, down his perfectly carved cheekbones. It was the first time I’d ever seen Grayson Crowne cry. It was like witnessing those miracles come to life, when the marble statues of deities weep.

  I was looking at the most powerful person on the planet.

  He’d given up his freedom, his dreams—his everything.

  For us.

  Atlas.

  No—king.

  Seventy-Three

  STORY

  “Gray—”

  “Don’t. Move.” Eyes still closed, Grayson yanked me down to the ground, pulling me into a violent hug.

  Harsh.

  Desperate.

  His heartbeat in my nose.

  He exhaled a breath I felt in my bones. “I thought I’d lost you both.”

  “I’m here. We’re here. I named her Sonnet…I…I thought you would be okay with that. But, if you’re not—”

  “Sonnet…” His eyes drifted back down to her, and he smiled. That wide Grayson Crowne smile, which speared his lips and my heart. “It’s perfect, Snitch.”

  We stayed like that until the moon dipped low in the sky, and the sun heated our backs as Sonnet started to fuss. Grayson released me enough so I could feed her.

  He didn’t move an inch, just watched me. Desperation burned in his eyes like the red and orange sunrise staining the sky. It breathed into the room, hotter than smoke.

  A new day—new beginning.

  Grayson snaked his hand around my neck, bruising my forehead against his as I fed her. “I need to fuck you.” The word fuck growled on my lips.

  I licked my lips. “So fuck me, Grayson.”

  He pulled back and eyed Sonnet. “I don’t want to let her out of my sight. I nearly lost you. But the things I’m going to do to you…” he trailed off, dark gaze finding mine. “She can’t watch.”

  I shifted.

  Ached.

  Goose bumps ignited my arms, legs—everywhere. Even before we’d been separated, Grayson and I had spent too long apart. My lips brushed his—the door behind us opened.

  I pulled away, focusing on the golden swirls in the marble. On my breathing. In…out… Not the twisting ache in my gut.

  I was really about to fuck Grayson in the middle of the hallway.

  “You’re still here?” Gemma eyed us on the floor. “The fuck? Ever heard of a bed?”

  Grayson stood, hot stare still on me. “Gemma, I need you to watch Sonnet for a few hours.”

  “So…let me get this straight. I’m midwife, maid, fairy godmother, and now I’m your fucking nanny?” She laughed, incredulous. “Fuck you. I’m Gemma Crowne.”

  Gemma brushed past us, but Grayson’s arm shot out, gripping her and holding her in place. She wiggled her arm, trying to yank free.

  “Gemma,” his voice was so low—grating. “There is no one else I trust to watch her. You saved my wife. You saved my daughter. I owe you so much—”

  “Gross, stop talking this way.” Gemma shook like a thousand spiders had been spilled on her head. She looked at me, then to Grayson. “Fine. Give her to me.”

  My grip tightened involuntarily on Sonnet. It was one thing to let Gemma watch her when we literally had no other options.

  Grayson dropped to his knees, one palm on my cheek, the other on Sonnet’s head. “Little wife, I’m happy to just lie with you.”

  “I want you,” I whispered.

  Still I clutched Sonnet.

  Behind him, Gemma exhaled loudly.

  Bizarrely, I did trust Gemma. She’d saved us, all of us. My eyes collided with hers, and for a split second, her haughty mask slipped.

  Grayson was right. She was the only one I trusted.

  I held Sonnet out to Gemma, heart pounding.

  She took Sonnet, walking back to her wing. “You owe me,” she called over her shoulder. “I expect her middle name to be Gemma.”

  She slammed the door shut.

  Grayson stared down at me, letting out a breath that rolled his entire body. His shoulders, his pecs. I expected him to tackle me, I hoped he would—but then he turned on his heel, following Gemma.

  I thought maybe he’d changed his mind, decided he couldn’t let Sonnet go. Then I heard Gemma swear. Her cursing grew louder and more frequent—until he was back in the hall, slamming the door behind him and silencing her.

  He didn’t take his eyes off me, until he was right before me, knotting my hair and yanking my head so I could see the pain and feral desire burning in his eyes. “What’s your safe word, little wife?”

  I looked around the hall. “Shouldn’t we go back?” Somewhere…private.

  “We’re not leaving this wing.”

  I knew then what he meant. Sonnet might not be able to watch, but ever protective Grayson Crowne wouldn’t let Gemma’s door out of his sight—wouldn’t let Sonnet out of his sight.

  I wet my lips, and his eyes darted to the
motion.

  “Story,” he gritted, licking his own lips. “Safe word.”

  “Mr. Crowne,” I breathed.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Completely.”

  His lips were hot on my ear when he hissed, “Run, Snitch.”

  Seventy-Four

  STORY

  Grayson’s footsteps pounded behind me.

  As I ran, I passed the memories of our love. This wing was where I first confessed to Grayson, and I could almost see our ghosts dotted on the walls, see him caging me, his blue eyes burning and demanding my truth.

  You’re the only friend I have, Story. With you, I don’t have to lie. You see me. I can’t lose that. I can’t lose you.

  Now, in the present, he closed in. I knew the only reason he hadn’t caught me yet was because he needed the chase.

  I needed it.

  There was something so hot about running away from him when he was so fucking desperate not to let me go. I could feel the desperation and primal lust like a wire pulling at my gut. Grayson Crowne, the thing that had been haunting Crowne Hall, hot on my heels.

  I think he needed to chase me as much as I needed to be caught.

  To affirm that missing piece inside him that I was real—I’m here.

  I could see the entrance to Gemma’s wing as Grayson rounded on me, his breath all but fanning my neck. We were nearly at the stairs, the past surrounding us, our love bright and burning in the shadows.

  I love you, Grayson Crowne—

  SLAM.

  Grayson gripped my ankle, and I went down. Hard. I grasped the bannister to keep from slamming fully into the stairs. He was on top of me in an instant.

  With two hands he ripped my pretty, white feathered dress down to my navel.

  Bare.

  In the fucking foyer.

  I looked around. “Grayson—”

  He slammed inside me and I broke off on a cry. I arched my back off the steps, opening for his invasion, grasping anything—his back, his neck, his hair. I was ready, our foreplay had taken place over the course of months.

  He pounded into me like he wanted me to feel him in my heart.

  “You own this house.” Slam. “I own the beach it’s on and the town it’s in.” Slam. “If I want to fuck you on the steps, the floor, in the middle of a fucking party, you won’t tell me no.” Slam.

  I groaned long and ragged at the image.

  The steps burned into my back—a good burn. Grayson is all-consuming.

  With each thrust, white gossamer and feathers bunched around my body. He hadn’t taken his tux off, only pulled his black pants down enough to pound into me. I don’t know why, but that burned me up so much I could barely breathe. Having Grayson in his perfectly tailored tux, caging me, knowing he barely had enough willpower to rip down his fly to get at me.

  “I thought you died. I thought you were gone.” He growled the words with each thrust, like each thrust cemented my personhood.

  It wasn’t sorrow coming off him, it was animal. A living, breathing feral desire, tugging at my own chest. Hot, untamed, until I was aching and wet and needy with it.

  “I thought you fucking died.”

  I took gasping, gulping breaths. His hand gripped my bare breast, massaging it, kneading it, bruising it. My blood was goose bumps and shivers.

  I’d give him everything he needed.

  Anything. Forever.

  “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  He scythed his teeth into the soft flesh above my breast, thrusting, pounding—hammering, until I saw stars.

  Everything I needed, everything he’d deprived me of because of that constant contradiction inside of him—to protect or to take—was unleashed in a constant, ruthless rhythm.

  Hard. Rough. Savage.

  The need in my gut twisted and I cried out. He refocused on me, teeth still locked on my flesh. His predatory, diamond blue eyes focused on my orgasm. His rhythm turned ruthless.

  I gasped and he shoved his fingers into my mouth. I want to bite him, I want to—

  His eyes narrowed, wet mouth lifting off my breast enough to growl, “Don’t you fucking hold back.”

  I bit down and, fuck, the change in him. His dick throbbed inside me, unleashing a new flurry of aching between my legs. His eyes darkened to navy blue-black slits, and I was catapulted over the edge.

  I come.

  Fast and devastating, without any finesse. Months of bottled up desire, need, desperation exploded from me. He fucked me harder—ruthless—and I bit and slobbered my moans around his fingers. I disappeared into it. All I could see through the haze was him—his eyes.

  A monster’s in the dark. Hungry. Ravenous.

  I don’t know how long it lasted, but when it was over, no inch of my chest was left unblemished or unravaged by his teeth.

  He looked at his fingers, and I got a flash of a grin, but it was gone too quickly.

  It wasn’t enough, he wasn’t finished. I could still feel him inside me—hot and hard. And I could still feel it inside him—the unquenched thirst in his chest. Breathing, beating—a living thing.

  He needed blood from the soul.

  Slowly he slid out of me, still hard.

  He stood to his feet and took sweet, deliberate minutes to undo his tux and tuxedo pants, but his eyes were just as desperate as before—if not more so.

  When the last item of clothing lay on the steps, he growled, “Get up.”

  Godlike.

  That was the adjective I always used to describe him—because it was the only one I could use. As he palmed his cock, he eyed me from his ridged nose and clear blue eyes, and once again I felt like a mortal graced with the presence of something greater. Golden light from the skylight above set his abs aglow, the perfect chiaroscuro for the deep ridges.

  I licked my lips. He looked like he belonged in the statuary, not standing above me.

  “Get up,” he repeated, still fisting his cock.

  “I can’t move my legs,” I admitted. I was jelly. I was loose.

  “I’m not done with you.”

  I mumbled something about being done.

  He bent down, pushing the hair out of my face, lips at my ear. “Little wife.” His voice was sweet and gentle. “Do you want me to stop?”

  His sweet words and cruel actions spun me undone into heat.

  I shook my head.

  No.

  Please never stop.

  His lips lower to my jaw, voice darker, vibrating with intent. “Then fucking move.”

  But I couldn’t move. I was jelly.

  He stood, studying me with his head tilted slightly, neck veins throbbing. Eyes edged with that crackling blue gleam they’d had all night, as if he was barely holding himself back.

  He flipped me like a rag doll, the steps biting into my stomach. He kicked my legs apart with his foot, palm coming between my legs.

  Rubbing.

  Hard.

  I went cross-eyed.

  He grabbed my chin in a biting grip, forcing my neck to twist, eyes back to his burning ones. “Don’t break eye contact again.”

  He kept palming my pussy until a whimper left my mouth—a plea. Why wasn’t he inside me?

  “I’m not coming in your cunt today,” he snarled.

  The tip of his cock pressed against my ass, invading.

  Hot. Hard. Too much, too big.

  “Can you feel your legs yet?” he rasped.

  I nodded—barely.

  “Good.”

  He stepped off, all the sensation gone. I was left an aching, desperate mess, staring up at the chandelier above the steps.

  Why?

  “Beg at my feet, wife.”

  Seventy-Five

  GRAY

  Story scrambled to her knees with barely a second’s hesitation.

  “Fuck me,” she begged, looking up at me through her lashes. “Bruise me. Please.”

  Fuck.

  I dragged my hand across my bottom lip, my jaw.

/>   She was dangerous like this.

  With that bottomless hunger and those trusting, pleading eyes. Like I could do anything to her and she’d let me. I first glimpsed it in her the day she stole my kiss. The deep well of hunger. The thing that made her beg more. The hungry, starving, aching need in her that matched mine.

  It was the reason she slid into my blood.

  She gave the monster in me unlimited access to her.

  I craved and craved, and she let me eat and eat.

  Story dragged her nails up and down my thighs. “Please.”

  I grabbed her wrists, holding them in one hand, and pulled her off the ground just a little. So her thighs would burn.

  So her breathing would get fast and rocky the way I liked.

  And so I could get to her ass.

  “Tell me what you want, Story,” I said, hiking up the tulle of her dress to slide one finger in her ass.

  She exhaled a steamy sigh, going cross-eyed. Fuck, I liked her like this—suspended by her wrists, her ass mine to use.

  Her head fell to my thigh, saliva dripping down my flesh.

  Her wide, walnut eyes opened, begging for more.

  “What do you want?” I thrust another finger inside her and she arched on a cry. “Say it.”

  “Fill me up,” she groaned. “Rip apart my soul. Make me bleed with you. So I can feel you inside me forever.”

  Fucking. Perfect.

  Still fucking her ass, I dropped her hands, forcing her to hold on to my thigh if she wanted me to keep fucking her.

  She did.

  She clung to me, nails biting into my naked flesh.

  I gripped her bottom lip, exposing her teeth. “I’m going to consume every inch of you. You’re going to bleed for me. Every fucking drop. Until I decide you’re done.”

  I would remind her who owned her heart. Who she bled for. Who she begged for. West had tormented her soul for too long.

  That’s my spot.

  I shoved her off my leg and she fell back, legs falling open. Soft and fluffy fabric bunched around her waist, giving just the barest, tempting glimpse of her perfect pussy.