Chapter 22
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Iwoke up reaching for her, only to feel a warm, empty pillow beside me.
“Lucy? Come back to bed,” I called, yawning. It must have been early in the morning. The sun hadn’t risen yet, and all I wanted to do was curl Lucy up in my arms and go back to sleep for another couple of hours.
Except there was no response.
“Lucy? Troublemaker?”
Nothing.
Rolling out of bed, I grabbed a pair of sweatpants and searched the bathroom. She wasn’t there. The other bedrooms. Still no. My heart began to thump, faster and faster, as I called for her and searched for her, dread percolating in my stomach.
I knew before I knew.
The door to my office was open. Just a crack, but still open.
She wasn’t in there, and it looked undisturbed, but she must have seen. The photos, the dossier, everything.
Running down the stairs, I grabbed my keys with no real plan in place. Just panic. Then I saw it.
A note on the kitchen counter, covered by her panties—the ones I’d stolen.
I picked up her panties and placed them back in my pocket, as if by keeping them safe, I could reverse this whole hellish experience and she’d appear in my kitchen and say “just joking.”
But the note made it clear that wasn’t happening.
The queen never wanted to be locked away in a tower, especially not from a lying knight who watched her from the shadows but refused to be in the light with her. She wanted him, but she wanted an honest kingdom more.
So she left.
And she lived happily ever after.
Alone.
Unless you come clean and explain everything, asshole.
I stared down at the note. Her anger was clear in every word, but that wasn’t what had frozen me in the kitchen.
I could barely keep from falling to my knees and roaring in anguish.
I’d hurt her. Badly. So badly, she’d left without waking me.
Obviously she’d discovered the photos and the dossier on her along with her panties.
I should’ve come clean to her before, but would she even have listened?
Understood something I didn’t fully understand myself?
It didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was that she was okay.
Was safe somewhere. I ran back up the stairs to my office, not even bothering to sit down at my desk as I checked the cameras.
She wasn’t in her dorm. I ran back downstairs to check my phone.
The GPS app showed her at an unfamiliar address—and when I searched it, no name came up.
Where the fuck had she gone? Where was she? Who was she with?
“Lucy, where the fuck are you? Come home,” I said into the empty kitchen, barely aware what I was saying, or that I thought of it as her home too, now.
I called her phone multiple times. She didn’t pick up.
Each time, I grew more worried, and with that, angry—and then angrier.
Yes, it was my fault that she’d left. But to sneak out on me was childish.
To ignore me, even more so. She had to know how worried I was, how the terror was an endless punch to the gut. How the fuck could she do this?
Are you angry with her, or yourself? that jackass of an inner voice asked calmly.
I ignored the fucker and texted her.
Please tell me you at least got home safely after you snuck out of my house like a bad dream.
She replied immediately.
are u calling me a nightmare?
Of course I wasn’t. She had to know I wasn’t.
The nightmare was waking up and not knowing where you were, or if you were safe.
didn’t u think to check your cameras to see where I was
Well, she had me there.
… … …
I did. And you weren’t there.
that’s because I went to emorys
The entire kitchen turned red. Redder still, as I fantasized driving over to Emory’s and stabbing him to death before fucking Lucy on top of his still-bleeding corpse.
I forced myself to slow my breathing, tossing my keys across the kitchen before I could act on my worst impulses. I’d hurt her, and so she’d acted out. I was still pissed at her for that, but at least she was safe. And as angry as Emory made me, I knew the kid wouldn’t hurt her.
So you’re safe.
Okay.
That’s it? No explanation or apology?
You want an explanation? An apology? You can have both when you come back. But I’m not doing this over text like I’m one of your friends.
Ellipses appeared and disappeared on the screen. Even though I hoped it was because she was considering coming back, facing me, and talking this out, I knew Lucy too well for that. She was probably coming up with the most cutting retort possible.
I was wrong. It was worse.
Why won’t you kiss me?
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I swallowed painfully. It felt like I’d swallowed the blade of a hockey skate.
I couldn’t tell her that, especially not over text.
I could barely talk about it at all. How could I explain the way my foster father had fucked with my head?
How undeserving I felt, of kissing, and what it would mean?
It was a level of intimacy I wasn’t worthy of.
Kissing felt like responsibility, like care, like making a statement.
Kissing felt like love.
And love wasn’t for me.
I stared at my phone, trying to come up with a response. All I had was:
Lucy…
We’ll talk about it after the game, I promise. Just don’t do anything stupid or that we’ll regret, please.
More appearing and disappearing ellipses, and then came the cutting retort I’d expected.
I’m not the stupid one in this conversation.
She was right.
I threw my phone against the wall. It hit the backsplash and shattered in pieces into the sink.
Here I was, the violent man I’d always been afraid I’d become. I didn’t deserve her. Wasn’t worthy of her kisses, or otherwise.
Sinking to my knees, I shoved my hands through my hair. Short of driving over to Emory’s, resisting killing him, and dragging Lucy back here, I wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe she deserved a little space, until I could man the fuck up and explain to her what was wrong with me. And fucking fix it.
First, I needed to drag myself out of this hole I’d buried myself in.