Crown of Lies

My body knew that body.

I’d never been so thankful to see someone. Even if he’d thrown me from his house. Even if he hurt me in ways I wouldn’t admit.

Penn threw himself over the hood as the man chasing me skidded to a standstill only an arm’s length from grabbing me.

I pressed against the car, my mouth gulping air. My feet burning from sprinting on concrete and debris.

Then my pain was no more as Penn launched himself at the man. “You motherfucker.”

Together, they went down.

Penn landed on top of him and didn’t give gravity the joy of crunching him into the pavement before his fists rained on his face.

He didn’t speak. Just beat him.

The robber did his best to cover his face with his arms, curling up, trying to push Penn off. But he didn’t stand a chance.

I counted one, two, three, four, five fists to the jaw before Penn effortlessly pushed off from the man’s chest and stood over him.

He cracked his knuckles as if he’d just washed his hands not doused them in some criminal’s blood. “Rob again. Try to rape again. And you’re fucking dead.” With a black shoe, he kicked the man in the ribcage. “Got it?”

The guy looked up, blinking through a rivulet of blood. For a second, his eyes were blank, full of hate and rebellion. Then they focused on Penn’s face. On the way he stood so regal and calm, demanding utmost obedience. Recognition popped in vibrant color, and the robber swayed to his feet, wrapping an arm around his kicked chest, and holding his head with the other. “Shit, it’s you.”

What?

I froze, desperate to know what he meant.

Penn stiffened. “Leave. Tonight is your lucky night.”

The man nodded, dropping his eyes, forgetting I even existed. Turning in his filthy sneakers, he took off at a stumbling jog.

He ran away with my earrings, just like the men in the alley ran away with my sapphire star.

I’d been saved again, but this time...all I felt was terror not desire.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“GET IN THE fucking car, Elle.” Penn’s voice remained low and hushed but rang with steely authority.

He knew him.

He knew Penn.

How? Why? What does it mean?

I blindly grabbed the door handle and cracked it open. Numb, I slid into the passenger seat as he strolled nonchalantly to the driver’s side and climbed in.

A few seconds passed after the doors slammed shut, cocooning us in heavy, oppressive silence. His bloody knuckles clenched the steering wheel as if he could throttle it.

My throat had permanently closed with fear and questions. So, so many questions.

How did that man know Penn?

Who was Penn?

And why...just why...did he beat up that man with the same effortless grace as the man in the alley that fateful night?

Penn reached across the gear stick, placing his hand on my thigh.

I flinched, yanking my legs to the side.

His fingers dug into my muscle, keeping with me. He breathed hard, squeezed me, and then let me go. Pressing the clutch, he slid the still rumbling engine into gear and drove off the curb and back onto the road.

The bump jostled us, but we didn’t speak.

I daren’t.

I didn’t know what to think.

Part of me wanted to over-analyze everything; to replay the way he disciplined that guy and try to connect dots that weren’t there. My imagination worked over-time, doing its best to believe that perhaps I knew Nameless’ identity all along. That maybe, just maybe, he’d been the one to find me after all these years and not me failing to find him.

But one awful flaw sat like a toad in that perfect fantasy. Penn didn’t have a gentle bone in his body like Nameless. Nameless was cool and prickly but beneath that armor had been kindness—sweet wrapped up in daggers.

Penn was just the blade, shiny and impenetrable, one dimensional with refracting surfaces to distort my true perception.

The only problem was I couldn’t distinguish one punch from another. I was seeing things—making things up—trying to link two very separate incidents into one.

To do what?

Find meaning in why I slept with Penn?

Validation that I wasn’t some romance-broken girl, after all?

“I owe you an apology.” His voice barely registered over the hum of the tires on the road.

I tensed, staring out the window. “I owe you thanks.”

His head snapped left and right in denial. “No. I kicked you out. I thought your driver would collect you, but then you walked off.”

“You were watching me?”

He didn’t reply. “You almost got hurt.”

“But I didn’t.”

“If you had...fuck!” He punched the steering wheel, making the horn blare, shattering the sleep in many apartments. “I would’ve fucking killed him.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you to.”

He glowered. “I wouldn’t have done it for you.”

“So you would’ve taken a life purely because you wanted to and not to somehow avenge me?”

“I would’ve killed him because he touched what wasn’t his to touch.”

My heart beat wild. “So you protected me, not because I shared your bed and gave up a significant part of me, but because in your twisted ideals, I’m a possession that only you can touch?”

His jaw worked as he drove fast through residential streets. “Yes.”

“Not because you feel anything for me?”

“No.”