Page 91 of Tell Me Why
She shakes her head. “I don–”
“I saw the emails, Skye,” I say, cutting her off. “I know you were reporting everything back to Christian. I know me coming to Rush House was all his idea, but it wasyouwho manipulated me into doing it...”
Her face falls, like someone who knows they’ve been caught and has no defense. “I’m sorry, Eve?—”
“Why?” I ask sharply, cutting her off again. Because the truth is, I don’t give a fuck about her apologies. “That’s all I want to know.”
Tears gather in her eyes, and she glances down at her feet. “I’ve wanted to join the Burning Crown for a really long time, and…Christian allowed me to initiate under the condition that I help him,” she says quietly, tripping over the words like she’s ashamed of them. “I thought it would be easy. Harmless. But as time went on, I don’t know…” She shrugs, her eyes darting away. “I started to think you and I could really be friends.”
I blink back my own tears—no tears of sadness, but of fury. Rage. “Even if it started out that way,” I say slowly to keep my anger in check. “A real friend wouldn’t have let me walk into a trap.”
Her eyes meet mine, pleading. “I’m so sorry, Eve. I really am. It was shitty, I know that. But I really did try to help you along the way. There were certain things I never told Christian…”
“Do you remember what you told me when I first arrived at Rush House?” I ask with a level of calm that I absolutely donotfeel.
Tears stream down her face, but she doesn’t say anything.
“You said, ‘We look out for each other,’ and…” I shake my head, remembering that moment. “...I was comforted by that, because as scary as the situation was, I knew I wasn’t alone. I had someone in my corner.” I narrow my eyes at her. “But it wasall a lie, an illusion. None of it was real—not my friendship with you, or my connection with Christian. You both were just using me.”
Rivulets of tears stream down Skye’s face. “I never told him anything important, I swear.”
I push out a sigh. I could yell at her, lash out, call her a cunt, but….honestly, I don’t need to do any of that. Her selfishness will reap its own karma.
“I trusted you, Skye. With everything. And you chosethis,” I motion to the house, the people on the lawn. “Enjoy it while you can, because they’re going to fuck you over eventually. That’s what The Burning Crown does. They use people up, then throw them away.”
Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk to the house. I keep my head down as I weave through the kitchen and mount the back staircase. When I reach Christian’s bedroom, I step inside and lock the door.
Only when I’m completely alone—surrounded by Christian’s things, his scent—do I finally let go. With my back against the door, I drop the envelope and slide down to the floor. Sobs bubble up in my throat as everything catches up with me—all the lies and manipulation. This whole toxic mess my heart’s gotten tangled up in.
And, honestly, the worst part of betrayal isn’t the lying. It’s not even the sting that chases it. It’s that hollow feeling that settles in your chest when you realize there’s no one you can trust. You’re completely and utterly alone…
CHAPTERTHIRTY-EIGHT
Christian
“For fuck’s sake,”someone says, the disapproving hiss swimming through my semi-conscious mind. “There you are.”
A firm hand shoves at my shoulder, shaking me free of the foggy nightmare I’ve been trapped inside.
What the fuck?
I force my eyes open, and instantly regret it. The morning sunlight feels like a glass shard straight to my fucking retina. Squinting, I turn my head away from the window.
I wince. It doesn’t help that Jackson’s ugly-ass face is two inches away from mine.
“Damn, what happened to your neck?” he asks, pulling air through his teeth.
Last night, I found an ancient first aid kit in one of the drawers and roughly patched myself up. Thankfully, she missed every major artery—though, I suspect that’s only because I moved at the exact moment she lunged. “Eve stabbed me with a letter opener.”
“Wow, respect,” Jackson laughs. “That girl has some serious balls.”
“Did you want something?” I hiss, the wound on my neck throbbing now that I’m conscious.
He moves over to the kitchenette and starts making an espresso. “You weren’t answering your phone. We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Skye finally told us where you were.”
As I pull myself up into a sitting position, an empty whiskey bottle rolls off my lap and hits the carpeted floor with a dullthud.
“Damn,” I breathe, stretching my sore muscles. This couch isnotcomfortable. It may actually pull out into a bed, but I was too drunk last night to manage all that, so I fell asleep where I sat.
