Page 64 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Chapter Nineteen
Don’t scream her name when she says goodbye
You know I’ve lost, lost my damn mind
Still hanging on by a few bloody threads.
Don’t scream her name, that’s what they said
And she’s still here, here in my head.
~Seven Seconds
Greyson
Istare at my friends. I’m sort of in shock they are actually standing in my house. Beside me, Emerson shakes with little tremors. I feel them in her fingers laced with mine. Her face is deathly pale, but I’m not sure why. She’s probably wondering what they are doing here, too. I seriously consider punching Dylan as he drags her into his embrace. Like he knows her.
Like he knows her…
He knows her.
He. Fucking. Knows. Her.
I hear Dylan’s question as if from a great distance. There’s an odd roaring in my ears.
Emerson’s hand tightens in mine, her knuckles almost white. Before she even turns toward me, panic rolling off her, Iknow.
I know the truth.
Three months ago I was sitting in the car outside Serene while Holly ran inside to purchase some damn pillow. But I got bored waiting. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I got out to look around, checking out the changes from the last time I was in Sea Cove.
And there she was. Emerson Jane Banner.
She was stalking across The Green, a Frappuccino in her hand, the sensual grace in her stride instantly familiar although, at the time, I couldn’t comprehend why. I do now. Now, I understand why her perfume haunts me, why it teases the edges of my memory. I know why touching her sends shivers of drug-soaked recollections scurrying to the surface. She is the girl I’ve been searching for, unconsciously but desperately, for all these months.
She’s the taste I remember. The memory I never forgot.
“You’re my Cinder-fuckin’-ella,” I breathe, staring at her. “Aren’t you? The girl from the bar. The night of that party in Hollywood….”
“Greyson…” Emerson begins, but I snap at her like a wild beast that’s been cornered.
“Shut up.”
Her mouth pulls into a thin line of distress while, at the same time, she attempts sliding her hand from mine.
I won’t allow that. Not yet. She owes me an explanation. For lying. For deceiving me. For leaving that long-ago morning when I wasn’t ready to let her go. For tricking me into readingMansfield Park.For making me desperate to prove that, although I’m a selfish bastard just like Henry Crawford, Iwouldandcouldend up with the girl I wanted. Even if I didn’t deserve her.
Emerson owes me for making me care. For making me fall in love with her.
I squeeze her hand so hard I think I feel the fragile bones grinding together. Emerson gasps but doesn’t try escaping again.
For unknown reasons, against anything that makes sense, some memories of that night come storming in. They are disjointed and incomplete, but it’s enough to tell the story.
“You planned this. Thinking you could trick me. Into what… some kind of relationship, like I’m suddenly perfect boyfriend material?” My words are snarled vessels of pain that cannot be held inside as I meet her stricken gaze. “Did you think, if you held out long enough, kept me from claiming that magical pussy of yours, that I’d be trapped? That when you finally let me fuck you, I’d be in so deep I couldn’t bear to let you go? Is that what you thought?”
“No!” she cries out, horrified by my ugliness. “I-I’ve wanted to tell you from the very beginning but I didn’t know how. I wanted to explain…” Her words trail off into a sob of pure misery.
“Man, ease up—” Dylan reaches for Emerson, touching her elbow like he’s protecting her. From me. It’s a dizzying flashback to that moment in the bar. How Emerson nestled under his arm after slapping the piss out of me. I remember taunting her, taunting Dylan. Saying I would fuck her right there on our table before letting my best friend have his turn.
