Page 9 of Ruling Destiny

Aside from my dad’s more esoteric interests, he was an ordinary guy. A husband, a father, an accountant who bought doughnuts on Saturdays and golfed every Sunday.

When my gaze finds Braxton’s, I know that even if I do press for answers, it won’t get me the truth.

Just like I’d rather make up a story than confess how sometimes, when I least expect it, time shudders to a stop, the world fades, and a window flings open, allowing me a glimpse into the past.

The realization lands with a jolt.

All this time, I’ve gotten it wrong.

Braxton and I aren’t nearly as transparent with each other as I thought.

I mean, how well can I actually know him when I haven’t actually known him that long?

Everything happened so fast—my coming to Gray Wolf, us choosing to be together. And lately, when the hours slink past midnight and I wake to the sight of him tossing and turning, caught in yet another one of his nightmares, I’ve started to wonder if maybe we haven’t quite earned this connection, this closeness, we both claim to feel.

Maybe we rushed in too quickly, spurred on by a physical attraction that was too overwhelming to fight.

I shake my head, shake the thought away, unwilling to tread down that path. Considering how this is the first time I’ve been serious about anyone for more than a week—I’m clearly no relationship expert.

And yet, as I stand before Braxton now, I can’t help but wonder if maybe we’re not nearly as special as I thought.

Maybe we’re no better and no worse than anyone else on this rock.

And now that I’m starting to see us more clearly, I know in my heart that it’s true.

All of us at Gray Wolf—including Braxton, and certainly me—we are all liars here.

5

Sometimes there are reasons to lie.

Good reasons.

Logical reasons.

Like the vow I made to my dad that’s now forcing me to make up a story for Braxton.

Problem is, I feel terrible lying to the one person I’ve come to care about in this place. But with Braxton still looking at me, waiting for a reply, I need to say something fast.

I make a show of clearing my throat, then go with the first thing that pops into my head. “I thought I saw…I don’t know, maybe a spider…” I swallow hard, aware of the rush of shame heating my cheeks. Deceit has never come easily to me.

I’m hoping Braxton will leave it at that—fill in the blanks however he wants. But he remains standing before me, fat droplets of water dripping off the ends of his hair, trickling onto his shoulders, before beginning a slow curve over his chest and along the taut line of his torso.

I force my gaze away, inhale a steadying breath. Then, blowing out the air in my cheeks, I try again. “And I—I just grabbed the first thing I saw and—” My voice falters; my shoulders hunch. I can’t look at him. Not when we both know I’m just making it up.

Braxton glances between me and the boots. And just when I’m sure he’s about to call me out on the lie, he says, “You seemed so frightened. I thought something terrible happened.” He keeps his voice steady, his gaze even.

My hand drifts to my belly, my fingers nervously tracing the curved lines of the Gray Wolf logo. “Guess I’ve never been a fan of eight-legged creatures,” I say, my voice rising so high I can’t help but cringe. It’s one of my tells, and I wonder if Braxton has caught on to that by now. Like I’ve caught on to the way he pulls at his signet ring, and how his British accent starts to sound like a character straight out ofOliver Twist.

“And where is it now?” he asks. “This spider you saw.” He tilts his head in question, but I just press my lips together and offer a half-hearted shrug.

Braxton studies me for a nerve-racking beat. And, realizing I’m going to have to do better, I gesture vaguely toward the far side of the closet, then watch as he wanders in that direction, pretending to give a good look around.

Or maybe he’s not pretending at all. I can’t even tell anymore. I just want this to end, to find a way out of this ridiculous game.

“And just how deep does your dislike of eight-legged creatures go?” Braxton faces me, his mouth curving into a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Should I move out? Ask Arthur to secure another room on a higher floor? Maybe even burn the place down?”

He’s approaching me now, his bare feet crossing the soft woven rug, his stormy gaze fixed firmly on mine.

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