Page 139 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
I whirl around on him, emotions tumbling through me that I don’t understand.
What is this place? Why do I like it? Why do I hate it? Why do I feel simultaneously devastated because this can’t be mine and also like I’m trapped here?
Should I … should I really be marrying Beast? Should I run away to some random country and start a new life without any of these men?
I feel like pulling my hair out.
“Where is my room?” I grind out, and Crown hesitates, pointing up the stairs.
I stomp up them, biting back my feelings until I can get a moment of privacy. I’m not sure if I’ll cry or scream or break something when the full force of them hits me.
“Four bedrooms upstairs; two downstairs,” Crown tells me as I open a door to find a bathroom. “You can pick whichever one you like with the exception of the master.”
I ignore him, searching through the rooms one after the other until my hand reaches for the knob of the last.
“Not that one,” he says, but I turn the knob anyway and shove my shoulder into it.
The master bedroom is huge and airy with a four-poster bed, neatly made-up with white linens. The window is closed—it’s still pretty smoky outside—but the sunshine peeking through doesn’t seem quite as sickly as it was the other day.
There’s a chaise at the foot of the bed, a pair of armchairs with a table between them in the corner, and a nook with a bench seat on the far wall. An armoire, a dresser, and two nightstands take up the remaining space.
I stare at the room, and I think about another woman sleeping here. Fucking Crown here. Decorating the space. Loving it. Smiling at him from her reading nook beneath the window.
Pure, unfiltered rage swarms over me.
“Get out,” I tell him without bothering to look back. “You can leave my bag outside the door.”
“Gidget, this is my room—”
“Get out!” I yell, spinning on him, hating him, hating the choice I really don’t want to have to make. Marriage is fucking stupid; it’s paper. I want a commitment made up of blood and lies and truths and fucking and feeling and passion and loyalty. That’s what I want. Why does he have to be such a friggin’ stick in the mud all the time? Who cares about the ring?
This is my house.
“Get out, Crown,” I hiss, and, because he’s not a stupid man, he listens.
I am not in the mood for lectures today.
Crown retreats and I end up sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the old hardwood floor. It’s stupid, but something about this house reminds me of the one we lived in before Cat bought the blood-soaked mini-mansion he has now. That house, the old one, was an ugly ranch home with orange linoleum counters and an avocado fridge that froze things on the bottom shelf and let things on the top shelf go bad.
I drop my face to my hands, but I don’t cry.
A few minutes later, a soft knock on the door precedes Reba’s entrance. She brings my duffel bag and my dog in with her, carefully closing and locking the door behind her. Fem wastes no time jumping on the bed, and I hope he just fucking sheds all over Crown’s perfect white blanket.
“Are you okay, darlin’?” she asks me quietly which really isn’t fair at all, considering what she just went through. Because of me. I lift my head up, and Reba’s already soft expression softens even further. “It’s a nice house,” she offers, and I shake my head.
“I hate it.”
“Don’t be like that,” she scolds, because momming me is easier than dealing with her own trauma, and I’m totally okay with that. I’m used to being mommed by girls my own age, like Queenie. Nellie just freaks me out when she tries.
“This was supposed to be my house, Reba,” I tell her, and she lets out a soft sigh, putting her hand on my knee.
“Then why are you marrying Beast instead of Crown?”
“I want to marry Beast,” I tell her, knowing that it makes absolutely zero sense. “I also want to marry Crown. And Sin. And—”
“Do not say that man’s name or I swear to you, I will break somethin’ nice.” Reba points at a vase nearby, one with dandelions in it. Like, who picks dandelions and puts them in a vase? Someone like Crown, I guess. “See that right there? I will break that lovely vase.”
I laugh then because Reba says vahze and I say vayse, and it doesn’t matter because we love each other. I consider texting Grey, too, but I’m not sure I can deal with any mafia/club bullshit right this second. Personal bullshit is taking up all available headspace for me.
“Grainger,” I finish, and she sighs heavily.
