He pushed me back into bed, pulling the blankets up.
It twisted me up. This brutal criminal was treating me like I was made of glass. He sat next to me, back against the headboard, and pulled me to his side.
“Go to sleep, Rich Girl,” he said, tracing his fingertips through my hair.
I must have fallen asleep. When I woke, the sky twinkled early-morning iron. I felt leaden, limbs heavy, eyes swollen. The kind of heaviness that came with too much emotion and too little sleep.
Grim was no longer in bed. I sat against the headboard, pulling the silky black sheets with me.
Ready to go home, Rich Girl?
I thought back to Grim’s words. Home.In a perfect world I would stay here. Thiswouldbe my home.
But everything was so messy.
As long as I was a Crowne, I couldn’t just disappear.
Antsy, I hopped out of bed, throwing on one of Grim’s black shirts. It came just to my thighs. The house was quiet in the morning, the creak of floorboards beneath my soles the only sound.
“Cutting it real close to the deadline.”
I paused at the top of the stairs. That voice sounded familiar. I peeked around the corner and froze.
It was Prince HSOG.
I quickly darted back before anyone saw me.
“I already told you no. I showed up at the Underworld. I gave you what you wanted.”
The prince laughed. “As long as you have that tattoo, you jump when I say jump. Unless you want something to happen to her?—”
A large thud sounded, like a body had been slammed against the wall.
Prince HSOG laughed. “Is that any way to treat your father?”
Father?
The prince was Grim’sfather?
“If anything happens to her, I’ll end you.”
“You can end this anytime, Santos. Finish her, or keep your pet and come join me, finally.” The sound of shuffling followed, like bodies moving and clothes being straightened. “You have until the fifteenth.”
The door opened with a creak, then slammed shut.
Finish her or keep your pet.
I couldn’t move. My heart hammered, frozen in place. Even when footfalls sounded on the stairs, I was stuck. The floor had become tar, and I was sinking into it.
Grim stopped short on the top step, looking like a deer in headlights.
“Father?” I said. “He’s yourfather?”
FORTY-SEVEN
GRIM
Shit.
