“I don’t share, Story. I never did. But I realized something.” West trailed his knuckles along my cheek, past my enraged glare and through my tears. “I will do anything to see that look on your face.”
“That look doesn’t belong to you,” I gritted. “That look is his.”
His eyes flashed. “If you loved him, then why did you sleep with me? You don’t love him, not the way you think you do. Because if it’s love, then you wouldn’t have sought me out, Angel.”
He dropped his hand with a vicious jerk, then adjusted his erection.
“We should probably go. We don’t want to be late.”
It wasn’t a big turnout, but then I’d imagine the only Crowne who really would have wanted to come to her funeral was already dead—Grayson’s father. I knew the only reason the living Crownes were even in attendance was for appearances’ sake.
West stood next to his father—whose beady fucking eyes were on me throughout the entire fucking ceremony. Grayson stood next to Lottie, eyes on me. I was alone for once, alone since my uncle’s funeral.
It was nothing like my uncle’s funeral, or what I can remember through my foggy grief-stricken brain. Everything was white with winter. The beach powdered in snow, the sky silky ivory. The only color came from the waves, a deep iron.
I stared at the triplets, an idea forming in my mind. If Josephine knew about the coin, was it possible her children knew something as well?
The triplets were the darker versions of the Crownes. To the naked eye, they were just your average, beautiful and spoiled rich kids, but if you looked deeper, something was off about all of them. They belonged on the moors where their mother had spent her life.
Josephine “Jo” St. Germaine’s eyeliner was smeared around her big, doll eyes—yet no crying redness lined them.
From between his fingers, a cigarette curled smoke around Charles Junior’s sharp jaw and bored pout.
Keller’s dark and silky, shoulder-length hair barely showed one vicious eye. He was the only triplet not named after a Crowne, though rumor had it, he was named after a long-dead St. Germaine.
None of them seemed the least bit phased at their mother’s death. With the porcelain skin of their mother and the high cheekbones of the Crownes, they had all the beautiful parts of their mother and father. And, I suspected, the darkness.
They stared at their mother’s casket like they were on a museum tour of fossils. At one point, Jo took out her phone.
“I have a riddle for you, Story…” I straightened at Lynette du Lac’s soft voice. “Where does a mistress and her lover live happily ever after?”
I shrugged, knowing she didn’t give me permission to speak.
“In the ground.”
A while ago, a threat like that would have terrified me, but I remembered what Josephine had said.
I was a threat.
I turned and looked her dead in the eyes. “Are you scared, Lynette?”
Her eyes popped. “I could have you punished for speaking to me.”
I slowly looked back at the black casket, lowering into the ground as we spoke. “Then do it.”
Put me on my knees.
Lock me in a tower.
Whatever she does, I’ll do it with dignity.
Lynette opened and closed her mouth, one eye twitching. She straightened her shoulders, waving to some unseen person across the funeral, before joining them without a second glance to me.
“How…” Lottie said, mouth parted. “How did you do that?”
I did a double take, surprised to find Lottie standing next to me, and not with Grayson. The casket continued to lower, and most everyone’s eyes were on that—the only exception being Grayson.
He was alone now. In a well-fitted charcoal suit, his rose gold hair perpetually unkempt, and standing beneath a lone tree with bare branches.