In the form of my grandfather.
“Hello, Story. Are you enjoying Christmas?”
STORY
Beryl Crowne stood before me in his iconic three-piece suit—the only thing different an emerald pocket square for the holidays—and Grayson was under my skirt.
He was under my skirt. I gripped the wall behind me for stability. My legs were spread as far as they could go in my crinoline, my hips ached. I fucking prayed it wasn’t noticeable.
“Are you enjoying Christmas?” Beryl asked, taking a sip of his eggnog.
Beryl had always been like the monsters in old fairy tales and stories, a shadowy thing. Seen in half glimpses, his booming voice heard like a dragon’s bellow from a cave.
Now, for the second time in two days, his shark-toothed smile peeked up at me from behind the eggnog in the perfectly polished porcelain cup.
I kept quiet.
“Ah…” He noted my silence. “Smart girl.”
Beryl was handsome—Grayson got his good looks from somewhere—but Beryl was sinister and silver-haired.
I hated him.
There was hate in my heart where it didn’t exist before.
This man had ruined everything. He was at the epicenter of all our pain. West, Lottie, Tansy, and the rest of the du Lacs…they were all a symptom of the greater disease, Beryl Crowne and the world he demanded turned on his say-so.
He smiled broader, like he could see the thoughts in my head.
“You know, you had me fooled. I don’t usually make mistakes, and that’s something for you to be proud of. I thought you were nothing more than a bitter distraction. Another whore trying at the crown.”
I focused hard on something—anything else—so I didn’t give him the satisfaction of my reaction. Grayson’s thumb stroked the bone at my ankle, trying to soothe, but his grip was tense and tight, betraying his anger.
“How long have you known, Story?”
Known what?
Against everything inside me, I met his red-brown eyes. Meeting Beryl Crowne in the eyes. I know I was allowed now, but he would see this for what it was.
Rebellion.
He arched a brow. “I see now you’re more, Story. A different, deadlier breed of trash.”
I felt Grayson tense beneath me, could feel his anger seeping like venom, when out of the bottom of my eyes I saw black—Grayson’s shoes. His shoes had slipped out. I stared unblinking at Beryl, willing him not to look down, where it would be painfully obvious.
Beryl exhaled—bored—and his gaze started to drift.
I had no idea what Beryl was talking about, but I was so tired of them talking down to me, of thinking they were allowed that right. I ground my teeth, trying to hold back.
“Because you’d never expect anything of a servant, would you, Beryl?” I asked. Grayson dug his nails into my thigh, fucking dug—pissed.
Beryl jerked back, eyes wide.
Beryl.
I’d called him Beryl.
My heart was in my throat. But at least he wasn’t looking down.