Page 8 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
And yet, at my most vulnerable, I’d suddenly caught tunnel vision for him.
Blatant wrath shifted Nash’s hazel eyes from golden brown to green, like aragonite and emerald gems had battled inside a kaleidoscope and neither had won. With his aquiline nose and too-full lips, he looked too pretty to touch. Still, I couldn’t pry my fingers from his forearms if I’d tried.
Tufts of jet-black hair stuck up in several directions on his head, like he couldn’t be bothered to tame it. Cropped closely at the sides, he kept it long on top in silky, uncultivated waves.
Cafuné, I thought, disconcerted when I realized I’d whispered it.
Cafuné—the act of running your fingers through the hair of someone you love.
The word came to me at the speed of an earthquake, sudden and unpredictable, shaking my already cracked foundations.
It didn’t make sense.
I was staring at the wrong Prescott.
“Your mom sent us to grab the tiara,” Reed explained from beside his brother.
Reed. My best friend. The school’s golden quarterback. A blond-haired, blue-eyed, All-American Southern boy with a charming drawl and a reliable smile. And those dimples. One on each side, gracing us each time he smiled.
Reed was here, and I was safe.
Time slammed into me until I teetered backward. It felt like an hour had passed since I’d bumped into Nash, but it was probably more like ten seconds. Nash steadied me as I registered Reed’s words.
Mom had sent them.
For the tiara.
Not me.
I said nothing.
I couldn’t.
Was this the type of truth—the type of ugly—Nash saw that had his lips permanently down-turned? For a second, I imagined my escape. No Eastridge Prep. No future at Duke. No designer threads laced with expectations.
Nash stayed silent. His eyes traversed a clinical path along my body—the disheveled hair, the mascara-stained cheeks, the ripped Atelier gown in Dusty Rose, a color that had looked cute when I’d left the house but just looked depressing now.
Tacenda.
Arcane.
Dern.
I mouthed words I loved to calm myself, letting them form on my lips without releasing them into a universe that destroyed.
My fingers clasped Nash’s button-down, one I recognized as my dad’s, but I couldn’t let go. Even as my torn dress made a slow descent down my torso.
“Whoa, Em.” Reed reached out and adjusted my corset.
Whatever he had done fixed it enough that it stopped slipping, and still, I couldn’t let go of Nash’s arm.
“Emery,” I corrected Reed. My tone spoke of a calmness I didn’t feel. A detachedness I desperately sought.
Some distant recess of my mind remembered Reed had always called me Em.
That this was normal.
That I was safe.
