Page 74 of Break My Rules

He squeezes me, supportive. “I can cancel my calls today,” he says immediately. “We can stay home or go somewhere. Whatever you want.”

I slowly sit up. “It’s OK,” I say slowly.

Saint gives me a look. “Birthdays are hard. After Edward… Well, I never knew what to do with myself.”

“I don’t either,” I admit. “That’s why I think I should just get through the day. Be normal. I have a ton of lectures, and reading, and I’m late on at least two essays…”

Saint frowns. “Are you sure?”

I nod, determined. If I let this grief blossom, even for a moment, I’m worried it’ll consume me. “I’ll be fine,” I lie, giving him a smile. “I’ll see you later, for dinner. We can talk then.”

I get up before he can argue and go to shower and get dressed. He’s still looking at me with concern when I return, but luckily, his phone rings, so I just kiss him on the cheek, and grab my things before he can say anything. “You should get that. See you later!” I whisper loudly, and bolt from the house.

It’s justa short walk from Saint’s place to the center of the city, where the old colleges lay cloistered behind high, ancient walls. I have a nine AM lecture on my schedule, so I join the flow of students heading towards the lecture halls.

But something makes me stop.

I stand there at the foot of the steps, watching everyone heading inside. The students are fresh-faced, studious, young and old; gossiping about last night, or anxiously checking for their notes. From the outside, I know I look just like them, with my bag full of books, and my college sweatshirt and jeans—but inside, it feels like I’m on the other side of an invisible barrier, watching them all from a distance. The crowd thins out as nine a.m. comes and goes, until only a few last stragglers push past me, rushing to make it on time.

Still, I can’t go inside.

What the hell am I even doing here? I came to Oxford for a reason, to find Wren’s attacker, but here I am, months later, no closer to the truth.

I’ve failed her.

I find myself turning and walking away, down the High Street towards the gates of Ashford College. As I enter, my favorite porter, Blake, calls out a greeting, but I barely manage a limp wave, still in a kind of daze. I wander past the lush quad, and through the draughty cloisters, out to the back lawns, and the path that winds by the river, leading out through the woodland to the very edge of the Ashford grounds.

I’ve failed her.

All this searching, the risks and betrayals, and I still have nothing to show for it. I upended my life, travelled thousands of miles from home, and enrolled here under false pretenses. And for what? Nothing but false starts, red herrings, and dead ends. The Blackthorn Society clues led me to Saint and his friends, but I’ve checked out every one of the men who had the crown tattoo and they all have iron-clad alibis for the weekend Wren was held. Saint was out of the country. Sebastian Wolfe was in New York. Max Lancaster was fucking his fiancée’s teenage cousin. Hugh Ambrose was addressing a conference in Stockholm.

None of them took her, and now I have no more leads left to chase. It could have been anyone with that tattoo—if Wren even remembered it right at all, through her splintered memories and drugged-up haze.

Where does that leave me?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Saint. “Just checking to see how you’re doing,” he says, his voice low and steady. “You rushed out of here so fast.”

“I’m fine,” I reply, except it comes out as a sob.

Saint sighs. “Oh, baby. It’s alright. Where are you?”

I look around, sniffing. “The riverwalk, at Ashford.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I find a shady spot on the riverbanks, and sink down to wait, leaning against a tree. It’s not long before Saint appears, and settles beside me, sprawling his long limbs on the leafy ground. “You picked a good spot.”

“For my minor meltdown?” I try to joke.

“To remember her,” Saint says softly. “I used to walk along here, too. It’s peaceful. Edward would always tell me how important it was to meditate, and spend time in nature,” he adds, with an affectionate eye roll.

I smile. “Wren was like that, too. She had her mindfulness podcasts, and self-care routines. She would always send me these links about how the brain responds to trees and sunlight, as her subtle way of telling me to get my ass off the couch.”

Saint chuckles. “You know, they probably would have gotten along.”

“Yes. They would have.” I exhale, wistful. “It’s such a waste. That they’re not here with us. That I can’t talk to her anymore.”

“Of course you can,” Saint says, and I look over in surprise. “You just can’t expect her to talk back,” he adds, with a wry smile. “But I talk to Edward all the time, telling him about what’s going on. Imagining what he’d say in response. Usually tell me to shape up and settle down.” He grins.

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