Not love. Not butterflies. Some twisted, sinister need deep inside me.
But I was Gemma Crowne, America’s Princess. My life’s map was drawn before I ever talked to him. He was Grim, a criminal from the wrong side of the tracks. We were never meant to be anything but this—one soul enslaved to another—because the day we finally gave in to our temptation was the moment he became my reaper.
Feeling suffocated, I shoved the heavy satin duvet off my body and got out of bed. Kennedy rolled into the spot I’d been in. I needed air, so instead of having breakfast delivered to the room like I usually did, I threw on a pair of oversize sweats and went downstairs.
My mother insisted on a full breakfast made every morning—even though we rarely ate together, let alone even touched breakfast. Flaky, golden croissants made with imported French butter, truffle poached eggs with caviar sprinkles, fruit from all over the world, and at least three types of freshly squeezed juice.
I was expecting the dining room to be empty, but my brother, Grayson, and his wife and daughter, Story and Sonnet, were seated and eating.
I immediately spun around on my heel to avoid them.
“Gemma?” Story said to my back.
Fuck.
“You’re back,” I said, sitting down and grabbing the breakfast I had every morning: hot lemon water with chiaseeds.America’s Princessdoesn’t stay a size zero by eating croissants.
Grayson played with Sonnet. “We got in last night—” He broke off when he saw me.
I gave him a face. “What?”
“Late night?” Grayson shared a look with Story—concern. I pretended I didn’t see it. “Are you okay?” he continued, voice soft.
Gentle.
I wanted to break it.
“Weird how everyone forgets the past,” I said. “You used to go out more than me. You were Playboy Gray—in fact, I distinctly remember you using your now-wife as a bargaining chip in a poker match.” Displeasure warped Grayson’s face, and he glanced at Sonnet—as if a fucking one-year-old could understand me. A little bit of the old Gray, the one before his wife, appeared. The guy who used to come home with bloody knuckles and a nose permanently crooked from too many hits.
I leaned back in my chair, smiling.
“Hey, it happened,” Story said, trying to defuse the conversation. “But we had something important to ask you, remember?” She gave Grayson a pointed look.
The tension in his shoulders released on an exhale. “We wanted to ask you a question.”
I took a drink of my lemon water, waiting.
“Will you be Sonnet’s godmother?”
I choked on the water.
Godmother?
Story handed me Sonnet before I could respond.
A small, tiny thing. Too tiny.
I studied her scrunched face. “I don’t think?—”
“You’re the reason this baby is alive.”
“Grim is the reason,” I said without thinking.
A weird, sticky tension filled the room. Almost a year ago, my grandfather went mad, Story was about to give birth, and we had nowhere to go. And almost a year ago, Grim showed up. He delivered my brother’s child on the sand. He saved us.
Maybe Grim came when I called because he felt the same twisted ache I do.
More likely it was because by saving the future Crowne heir, he had the entire Crowne family fully under his grasp.
