Page 76 of Crown of Thorns
Speaking of…
The cocktails are ready, but Noah still hasn’t shown up. He told me he had an appointment, but how long can it take? I stayed behind in the forest to keep working on those vines, pissed off and determined to win.
I want him to see what I uncovered. I want to see those eyes, silver and unreadable, flash with something like gratitude. Something like his walls cracking.
But I haven’t earned that. Not yet.
The bed’s made. A dim light glows, his usual ritual. He never says it out loud, but I suspect he’s afraid of the dark.
I down one of the cocktails and send him a pic. Lick the sugar from my lips, still nothing.
By the time I finish the second, my phone buzzes. His live location pops up, burning bright on the screen.
He left. Not just the castle. Me.
No fucking doubt. No hesitation. No backtrack.
I don’t sit there and overthink it. I don’t spiral into the “what if's” or “whys.”
I just feel it, the sting, the cold punch straight to the gut.
Because sometimes, leaving isn’t just a walk away. It’s a goddamn declaration.
I grab my keys. Slide behind the wheel of my Audi.
If he’s out there playing pretend while I’m here waiting like a lovesick idiot, I’m going to make him bleed.
The café’s dimly lit, all scratched wood tables and aging velvet booths. It smells like old books and bergamot, comfort trying to disguise itself as class. I spot him instantly.
Corner booth. A woman sits across from him. Blonde, pretty, a subtle kind of polished. He’s laughing. Relaxed. One arm draped over the back of the chair, tea in hand.
He never laughs like that with me.
Does he laugh like that when I’m not looking? What the hell would it take to earn that kind of ease?
Little devil: Where are you?
I watch his phone light up. He flicks the message away without a glance.
Little devil: Who’s the blonde bitch?
He doesn’t even blink.
I want to rip the table apart. Drag him outside by the collar. Make him look at me the way he did in the forest. With tension. With need. Not this…ease he’s giving her.
I slam back a glass of cheap champagne and storm out.
Back in the car, I sit gripping the wheel, vibrating with fury.
My thoughts circle like wolves. Snarling. Hungry. Ready to tear flesh from bone. And even after everything, after the kiss, the truth, the bruised relief, I can still feel them pacing at the edge of my mind, restless, unsatisfied, waiting for the next crack in his armor.
What does she have that I don’t? Her laugh? Her calm? The way she fits into this small town while I burn like sin at the edges?
I want to scratch her name out of existence. I want to brand mine into him.
And then, minutes later, Noah steps outside.
He sees the car. For a second, something flickers—surprise, maybe even guilt—but then his face hardens. Beautiful and conflicted.
