Page 115 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
“Forget that you’re less than a week away from marrying another man?” Crown deadpans, and then he steps away from me. “Not likely, Gidge.” He sighs heavily and pushes some of that wavy hair back from his forehead. “You can announce to the girls that we’re yours; you can even believe it yourself. Doesn’t mean that this will work out in the end.” He looks away from me, toward the smoky sky and the ugly sun hidden in its sinister folds. “This right here”—Crown gestures between me and him—“it was never going to end like a fairy tale.”
He turns away and takes off, heading into the shadows of the garden.
He’s upset, I think. His dream was to present that ruby ring to a woman—to me, specifically—and claim his partner, his future, his chance at a family.
In a sense, no matter what happens, Crown’s dreams are dashed. Destroyed. Crushed to dust. The careful game he was playing with me has failed him.
He says we can’t end this story with a happily ever after. Who says we have to? My life will never be a fairy tale, regardless of how the rest of it turns out. My sisters are dead. My father is a monster. My brother is a creature from a nightmare. Even the men I love have hands drenched with blood, hearts of smoke and shadows, pasts dipped in pain and loss. They are not whole. Neither am I.
But I don’t need that.
I need someone with jagged edges, someone who can handle all my sharp points, my biting acidity, my nihilistic tendencies. Multiple someones, preferably. There is no telling what will happen tomorrow, if I’ll even live long enough to see much more of a life than I’ve got now. Same with the guys. Their jobs are dangerous; their lives are always hanging by a thin thread from the cruel, skeletal hand of fate.
I decide to follow after Crown, finding him near the edge of the manicured garden area, staring out at the woods. He briefly glances my way before refocusing back on the trees, the repeating bars of their trunks, the filtered sunlight.
“I would choke on a fairy tale,” I tell him, and that’s the truth. “Too sweet, too cloying. I was born ruined, Crown.”
He doesn’t respond to that, remaining distant, contemplative.
“Just before your sisters died,” he begins, closing his eyes. It seems, at first, as if he might be in pain. But no, that’s not it at all. He isn’t in pain: he’s mad. Furious. When he opens his eyes again, I can see that fury etched like lightning in his moss-colored gaze. “We knew there was a traitor in the club.” He looks at me then, studying me, as if deciding how ready I am to hear this.
“And you never found him?” I ask, thinking about Gaz. Crown shakes his head.
“We thought we did.” He pauses again and turns back toward the woods. I wonder where his house is. I know that the club has been working on chipping away at the surrounding properties, bringing one after the other under its control. Crown’s house could be somewhere nearby, maybe even within walking distance. “Cat was convinced of it.”
“You … killed the wrong guy?” I query and Crown looks down at the dirt beneath his feet. Is this where that man is buried? Are we standing on his grave? It’s impossible to walk around this compound and not dance on the grave of an angry soul, long buried and rotting.
“No, not the wrong guy.” Crown exhales sharply, still looking at the dirt, lost in memories. “Just not the only guy, I think. I knew it then, that we had more than one rat on our hands. The fact that you saw Gaz and Caper together means I was right. It’s a fucking coup.”
Crown looks up again, eyes blazing.
“So, Gaz was in on it even then?” I wonder, letting my brain chew on the idea of that for a minute. I do not like my brother, don’t get me wrong. He deserves to die for all of the things that he’s done. Still, it’s hard to imagine that he might … that he could’ve had something to do with Queenie’s and Posey’s deaths.
“I thought so. I even told your father.” Crown laughs and lets his head fall back. He’s a glorious shadow against the setting sun, a landmark, something solid to hold onto. I want to touch him so damn bad right now, but I’m worried he might pull away. So I wait. I bide. I ponder. “I’ve waited years to be able to talk to you like this.” He drops his chin down and turns to look at me. “I keep chastising you, Gidge, but only because you’ve got potential. If you were a man—”
I grit my teeth. I am so fucking sick of hearing how amazing I might be if I didn’t have a pussy. I hear it every single time my father looks at me. He wishes I were a boy. He’d give anything for that to be true. Why? Why does it matter? Unless I’m climbing in the ring with Beast, it shouldn’t.
