Page 97 of Scarred Crown

Nick comes out of the bathroom and stops to stare at me for a minute.

“What?” I ask, and a smile works its way onto my face.

“Taking a mental snapshot.” He climbs onto the bed, and once he’s underneath the covers, he draws me to him. “When are you moving all your stuff in?”

“Moving in?” I freeze in his arms.

“I can’t live in your tiny apartment in the center of Tucker’s Town. Security would be a nightmare. We can move into one of the vacant houses on the property, if you want. Or keep this wing of the house. Whatever you’d prefer. I can talk to my father.”

“I guess I hadn’t really thought about exactly what staying married means.” The logistics of the whole ‘being married’ hasn’t been on my radar. Up to now, I was worried about whether Nick wanted to be married to me at all, and if he didn’t, the scandal we’d create by getting an annulment.

“Have you changed your mind?” Nick tenses.

“No.” I run my hand along his chest and throw my leg across his for good measure. “No.” He’s mine. Really mine. After fourteen years of believing something—that he discarded me and couldn’t care less—it’s hard to switch off my caution. “We can create a list of the major decisions we need to make and then we can go from there, okay?”

He runs a finger down my arm and seems lost in thought. Maybe he doesn’t like my list idea? I love lists. There’s so much gratification in checking something off.

“Do you think,” he says, his voice soft, “I tricked you into marrying me?”

“What?” I prop myself up on an elbow. “No. Why?”

“The arranged marriage schtick. That was a code my father and I worked out so I’d know to take a request to return home seriously. He would never have arranged a marriage for me. But I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have told you that.”

“Oh,” I breathe out and sink back down into his arms. “You think you made me feel guilty? Manipulated me? Used our old pact against me?” Sixteen-year-old me might have been sucked in by a sense of obligation, but thirty-year-old me wouldn’t have, not even with a ton of alcohol.

“Yeah.” His voice is raw with emotion.

I rise onto my elbow again so I can make eye contact with him. His obvious concern breaks my heart a little. “Whatever happened between us, I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t want to. That much I know for sure.”

He doesn’t say anything while he moves more strands of my hair away from my face.

When he stays silent, I can’t fight the urge to say more. “I think we hurt each other a lot, even though we didn’t mean to. It’s going to take both of us some time to get past that. But I think we can. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if I didn’t think we could.”

“I loved you so much back then.” His voice cracks. “You have no idea how much I loved you.”

I do because I loved him with the same intensity. My heart bled the same way his did. I kiss him, and he rolls us, so I’m pinned underneath him. I arch into him, and then I’m lost in a haze of sensation. I empty everything I can’t or won’t say into the movement of our bodies, and I pray that Nick never cuts me out of his life again.

Jules

Fourteen years ago

When I wake on Christmas Day, the house is eerily quiet and there’s a chill in the air. Though Posey and I are both beyond the excited squeals over toys and trinkets at the crack of dawn, I can’t believe everyone let me sleep this late. It’s almost noon.

I throw on a robe and check the bedrooms. Everyone else is up. So strange.

“Merry Christmas!” I shout as I come down the main staircase.

Posey is conked out on the couch, and there’s no sign of my parents. I check the kitchen and the bathrooms, but the house is so silent. Even Posey sleeping on the couch is weird.

I wiggle her shoulder to wake her up. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

She squints at me and rubs the drool off the corner of her mouth. She props herself onto an elbow. “They went to the hospital.”

“The hospital?” A swell of panic rushes across my chest. “Is one of them sick?”

Posey shakes her head and then glances at me. She bites her lip as though she’s not sure she should say anything.

“What?” I ask. “Why did they go to the hospital?”