ｃｈｒｙｓｓｉｅ

ｇｕｉｌｔ

The smell of an impending storm hung in the air as Grayson rolled down the window to the taxi. His ears picked up the sound of Chryssie peeling her legs off of the cold seat. He cringed slightly, always hating how bare skin stuck to leather so easily, recalling the unpleasant feeling.

The man driving them was middle-aged with an abundant amount of facial hair allotted on his chin. A slight bit overweight, couldn't have been taller than 170 centimetres. Easy to kill.

Grayson had to shove his hands deep into his pockets to keep them from drifting and opening the latch to the window separating them and fucking strangling him.

He turned his attention to Chrysanthemum. How she scratched nervously at her arm every few moments, how she kept moving her toes in those heeled Mary Janes of hers that reminded him of the impeccably polished ones she used to run around the schoolyard in. It was obvious that her conscience was eating at her.

Grayson didn't quite understand it - after all, she had no reason to feel guilty. She obviously hadn't meant to harm the man, it was only self-defence, after all. Anyone in her position would have done the exact same thing, perhaps worse.

He placed his hand carefully on her knee, scooting a tad bit closer to his flower. Her lower lip twitched slightly, but she gave no other acknowledgement of the contact between them. His fingers absentmindedly rubbed against the fabric of her dress.

Bitterly, he remembered Kingston complimenting the colour of it, and just like that, there was a hatred in his chest burning like no other.

To think he had almost forgotten about his Chryssie's poor excuse for a half-brother.

In fact, Grayson had been so utterly peeved by his former best friend's behaviour, he had chosen a form of undoubtedly unsanitary public transportation over Kingston's perfectly clean Mercedes. He hadn't been in the mood for any of Kingston's flower-stealing, moral high-horse bullshit, and as far as he was concerned, would be perfectly fine without ever seeing his nicotine-addicted face ever again.

"You're squeezing," Chryssie remarked, gently removing his hand from her leg. "If you're not careful, it'll give me a bruise. Of course, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"What do you mean?"

She sunk back into the seat miserably. "You're sadistic. God, I can't believe I'm back with you. I thought that I'd finally gotten away."

He gave a soft chuckle. "You did, didn't you?"

"How did you even find me?"

"You forget sometimes, Chrysanthemum, that I know you better than you know yourself," he replied, leaning in until their faces were just centimetres apart. "Though I never thought that you would kill a man."

It was a low blow, and he regretted it the moment that he saw the tears glisten in her crystal eyes.

"I'm just as bad as you are," she whispered, burying her head between her knees. Her hair was falling out of the chignon she had worked so hard to put it up into, raven locks contrasting against the creamy white silk.

He smiled slightly at the comparison.

"No one is as bad as I am."

~

Guilt twisted in Chryssie's stomach, making her chest tighten. She hoped that no one else would get in the elevator with them, thinking that the evidence of her crime was written all over her face.

To her, it was easy to see what she had done. The spots of blood under her left sleeve that she hadn't managed to get out, even with copious amounts of cold water. The scratches on her legs from their scuffle on the ground. The forming bruise on her hip where Taylor had gripped her.