__________
✦ ✦ ✦
MAYELLA DIDN'T KNOW WHAT SHE WAS DOING. Which was a new concept for her, a girl who tended to hold complete and utter control over every aspect of her life.
Grayson switched off the car and turned to her as they settled on the side of the road, the warehouse looming over them.
"Why are you here?" He asked. There wasn't a smile, or even a smirk, in his voice— it was so unusual to behold. He was filled to the brim with a rage that wasn't reserved for her.
Maye fiddled with the Tiffany ring on her finger. She wasn't sure why she was here, just that there had been worry in Freya's eyes when she'd entered the kitchen and that had sparked worry in her heart. Though, she knew her heart shouldn't be involved in matters concerning Grayson Winchester, it somehow was involved anyway.
And the burn of his gaze wasn't the type she'd grown to like, the one that slinked down her figure before his lips met hers. This was unfiltered fury that stemmed from something more vast than what they shared in a bedroom, if they shared anything at all.
His knuckles were tight upon the wheel of the Rolls Royce. Matthew's Rolls Royce, if the cheeky post Freya had tagged her in was any indication. Now, her notifs were blowing up with questions about the boy in Freya Arsov's Instagram story.
That's what she got for being friends with a socialite. But Freya had rarely posted on social media since all of this started and the fact that she'd posted Gray meant that she'd felt comfortable enough to do that— so Maye wasn't too angry— though she would still chew off Freya's head later just for the sake of it.
It was a shame all that was comforting in the world seemed that have exploded in their faces hours later. And Grayson was an explosion waiting to happen in that moment. All Maye could do was try to figure out how he'd explode.
"Where did you two go?" Maye asked.
Gray didn't let go of the wheel. "Why are you here, Mayella?"
She bit her lip. She wasn't sure.
"Can't I just be here?"
Gray turned to her then, quite suddenly. Maye almost jumped, then she hated that instinct. He wasn't going to hurt her, she mentally snapped at herself. He was Grayson and though he acted tough, he was truly a kind soul, she'd learnt.
As if noting that he'd frightened her, he visibly exhaled and relaxed and so did she. But he was still angry, it lingered in his eyes like layers of ozone claiming him.
"Be here? Since when have you ever been here? You're only ever here if you're in my bed," he went on, words hot with a flame she'd never tasted before. "So, what gives you the right to be here? Or is it a rich girl thing? To just feel entitled to everything? Well, this my anger, Maye. You can have my dick all you want but this anger is mine."
Maye could've flinched by his words, but she didn't. She only stared at him levelly. She didn't bite at his hurtful words. She merely asked, "Why are you angry, Grayson?"
He looked at her sharply, clearly annoyed that she'd refused to rise to his bait. Maye wasn't hot-headed like Raina or Freya. Sure, she occasionally broke champagne bottles over the heads of assholes. But they tended to deserve it. She didn't think Grayson deserved her ire. He was one of the good guys.
"What's it to you?" He snapped. It was the most hostile he'd been with her since that night she'd threatened to call the cops and spill all Du Morts's secrets. She'd gotten so accustomed to his easy grins and mischievous eyes and his kisses that she'd forgotten he could be an asshole. But he wasn't an asshole— he was acting like one.
Just like Maye could act like a bitch, and while on normal days, Grayson seemed to enjoy her bitchiness, today it appeared he needed her to be his friend, not the bitch who occasionally slept with him. But was she his friend?
Mayella loosed a breath. She exhaled. "Because," she stated flatly, "I'm concerned."
His eyes raked mercilessly along the lines of her face.
Maye tried again. "I care about you."
Grayson huffed a laugh, but it was bitter-tinged. "Do you really? Or did your friend send you after me? I know you care about her," he said, leaning over the wheel before bringing his eyes back to hers. "But I'm not so sure you care about me, Mayella. You haven't spoken to me since that meeting."
Mayella felt pinned by that stare. Half of her wanted to run away, the other half knew it wasn't fair to him— to her. It wasn't fair to run away when she cared.
"I'm sorry," she found herself saying. Because it was all she could say. There was no excuse for her behaviour, no explanation as to why she'd ghosted him for days. She could say she was afraid, but that wasn't good enough. She clearly wasn't afraid enough to climb into this car with him and drive all the way to London. "I'm sorry," she repeated. This one was an apology to herself.
Because Mayella Vance had never been kind enough to herself.
And Grayson Winchester was a kind man who she had run from because she wasn't familiar with kindness, didn't know what to do with it.
She'd called him a criminal in her head but she knew better. He was a good man, who ranted about littering, and wasn't threatened when she towered over him in heels and didn't ever take anything from her without asking.
Grayson returned his head to the wheel of the car, bent so harshly that she worried he was broken. But finally, a loose sigh slipped past his lips and he said, "Anakin is my family. He and Matthew and Du Morts— they're the only family I've got."
Maye fell silent for a moment, realising his anger had dissipated to reveal the truth beneath.
"My parents died when I was young," he went on, encapsulating the air with his words so that it was just two of them in this sphere of existence. "My gran raised me. We barely had, but we managed. I joined Du Morts when I was just a boy. Maybe it made me a criminal but the scraps of income I got from it put beans and bloody toast on the table."
Maye remembered him saying he believed beans and toast to be the best food ever invented and she'd internally cringed, thinking: White people and their damn flavourless food.
"We didn't have any other family. My gran died a few years ago," he continued on. "And I was alone, but that was okay because I had Du Morts. And came Matthew, and then Anakin." A little fleeting smile was on his lips as he sat back up, staring out the window with a nostalgic look in his eye. "I was thrilled to learn about Seth. I had my brothers then, Anakin and Matthew, those fucking wankers. But it was nice to know that I still had family by blood in this world."
Maye watched his frown slip away and she wanted to take his hand and she didn't know why.
Gray was still speaking, but now his eyes were ringed silver. Except the tears locked behind his stormy blue eyes were much more precious than the Tiffany on her finger. "And then the little motherfucker— fucking Graves— goes all fucking lone wolf. He watches too many movies, that's what it is. The little fuck." A harsh, wet laugh. "He thinks he can take down Kirova by himself. And maybe he can— but he shouldn't. I should've stopped him from walking out that door. Tackled him the floor. That scrawny piece of shit."
Maye swallowed, watching the tears shine behind Gray's eyes but not once slipping. She wanted to tell him it was okay to cry. She wanted to tell him she could be his family. But she didn't. Instead, she asked, "What happened?"
Gray faced her, face pale. "I don't know."
And those words were worse than anything he could've said. It shook his large shoulders and made the air in the car feel scarce.
Mayella leaned over and wrapped her arms over the tattooed young man as he began to sob into her shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said. And then, "I'm here for you."
✦ ✦ ✦
THE WEEKS ACCOMPANYING THE NEWS THAT Anakin had gone to confront Kirova and had not returned were bleak. At least, Freya felt they were bleak each time she glanced at Raina. Or Matthew. Or Grayson.
She told herself that she couldn't let this ruin them. Kirova wanted to ruin them and she wouldn't let him.
So, they carried on.
The five of them were in a spare bedroom of Ebony House, one which they'd converted into a storage space for clothes that couldn't fit in the measly closet-space appointed to them in their dorms. Freya was on the edge of the untouched bed, swinging her legs. Amelie sat on the fluffy rug below the bed, cross-legged, playing Candy Crush on her phone. Her freshly manicured nails tapped furiously at the screen and she grew frustrated. "God! Fuck it!" She unceremoniously tossed the phone at Freya's feet.
Freya picked up the phone and resumed Amelie's level, just as Maye stuck her head from under the bed.
"Aha!" She cheered. "I found it!"
She pulled out a box with the Louboutin logo stamped on its front, then flipped open its cover to reveal a pair of red-bottoms covered in glittering Swarovski crystals.
"All that rummaging?" mused Freya, eyes still on Amelie's game. She lifted her stare only to smirk at Maye. "Gray would be so flattered to know that you're getting all dolled up for him. Lucky bastard."
Mayella glowered at her. "Shut up, Arsov."
This prompted laughter from the rest of the girls, including Amelie, who Freya handed back her phone after having beat the level. Ungrateful bitch.
Even Raina had cracked a smile from where she was curled at the window seat. It pleased Freya, who had grown increasingly worried about the fact that Raina drifted around this house like a ghost. It didn't matter that she'd done the exact same thing weeks ago. Freya didn't like to see her friends hurt.
Juliet, who had gone to sit near Raina at the window seat as if her presence might cure their friend of her mourning of the boy who was not dead but gone, turned a green-eyed stare Freya's way. "Don't pretend you're any different, dear," she chirped. "Aren't you having tea with Matthew's mum today?"
Freya sighed and fell back rather dramatically onto the bed.
She had no reason to be nervous about tea with Minerva al Nassar. After all, she'd sat in her library as a child and spilled biscuit crumbs on her carpet. She would even consider Atalanta an older sister. But the headmistress's words had not left her head and part of her worried that Matthew's mother, even if she was not well, shared the same sentiments.
As for Matthew, he had taken to spending most of his nights in Ebony House while she'd taken to spending the weekends at the warehouse. And he'd even started waking before her, a thing that had troubled her at first for she wondered what nightmares plagued him so that he was up before dawn. But then he'd hand her a freshly brewed cup of coffee in the morning, a warm smile on his lips telling her he was okay.
One morning, she'd climbed down the spiral staircase in the warehouse, leaving Matthew upstairs drying his hair after a shared shower, only to find Maye, hip against a crate, locked in conversation with Roza about how she should pursue a career in modelling. It was truly an experience.
Amelie prodded her foot. "Earth to Freya," she called.
Freya hefted herself off the mattress and peered down into her best friend's brown eyes.
"Are you nervous?" inquired Amelie.
But Ams could read her like a book and she knew the answer. She was only asking for the sake of the others.
Freya massaged her temples. "Maybe."
Maye threw wrapping paper at her. "Don't be."
Freya caught it and held it in her lap, studying the LV logo peppering its surface. Wryly, she interjected, "Why thank you, Mayella. All my nervousness has become ash on the wind when faced by your inspiring words."
Maye rolled her eyes.
Juliet laughed. "If it makes you feel any better, he went to Maye about your dress for the ball."
At that, Maye shot Juliet a dirty look which told Freya this was supposed to be a secret.
A slow smile crept onto her face. "Did he now?"
The Winter Ball was tomorrow. And, as agreed, Matthew would be Freya's date. And, in a turn of events that had given them all whiplash, Maye had announced she would be taking Grayson, a fact of which the tattooed young man never failed to mention to Freya whenever they encountered one another in the Du Morts warehouse. And all Freya could think was: This man is whipped.
But then again, who wouldn't be whipped for Maye? Freya was a little whipped for Maye.
But that didn't stop her from careening her neck down to her dark-haired friend and purring, "Details, Mayella. Give me details. What colour should I have my nails done in?"
Maye scowled at her, absolutely unperturbed under her stare. "Get a French manicure. You need one," was all she said.
Freya rolled her eyes and flopped back onto the mattress in defeat while studying her nails, making everyone chuckle.
A few hours and one French manicure later, Freya was in Minerva al Nassar's kitchen, Matthew, dressed in dark blues a step behind her. He looked good in dark colours. He also looked good in white. And he looked good in nothing at all.
Freya cleared her head. Was she really thinking dirty thought about Matthew in his mother's kitchen?
There was paint on his knuckles, staining the golden skin blue as he brushed a hand on her waist. She'd woken one morning in the warehouse to find him bent illustriously over a canvas and her heart had lifted at the sight of him doing what he loved. Then, she'd snarled and called him a bastard when he absolutely refused to show her what he was painting. She'd even threatened to tackle him, to which he'd only laughed and said she couldn't even tackle a teddy bear.
Atalanta was leaning her hip against the dark marble kitchen counter, her golden hair swept over a shoulder. Freya smiled at her and she returned it winningly. Golden eyes flicking to her mother who was seated at the little round table she had laid out with all the makings of teatime.
"Mum," went Matthew's older sister, "will you tell us now what this is about?"
Minerva looked better than she had that day in the garden, a little more colour in her cheeks, under her eyes a little less dark. But Freya knew that didn't mean she was not the same woman who'd grasped her hand and gasped her deceased husband's name when faced with her son. And this made her sad.
Almost as sad as the knowledge that right next door, there was her childhood home. Freya hadn't even bothered to look over at Westshire, knowing it would only set her nerves more taut.
Minerva only smiled at Atalanta's question before lifting her eyes to her son who stood behind Freya. "Goodbye, Matthew," she said, much to Freya's horror.
Of course, she'd played the meet the mother game before— with Jules. And of course, she knew Minerva since she was a child. But she'd taken to finding comfort in rough situations in Matthew, with his vanilla scented self and paint-stained hands— he was her rock, something solid to lean against. "This is an affair for the women, son."
Matthew huffed a breath, clearly surprised to be kicked from his mother's kitchen. Freya could relate. "What if I wanted a scone?" He asked, petulantly.
Minerva levelled a patient stare at him, and she was that brilliant scholarly woman that Freya had known once upon a time. "You can have one afterwards."
Matthew gave in, lifting his hands in surrender. "Okay, alright," he relented. A shake of his head. "I'll be moping about all alone, if anyone needs me. I hope I will be missed."
Atalanta laughed a tinkling laugh at him. "No one will miss you, Matty," she jabbed. "Why don't you be useful and go feed the ducks or something?"
A dumbfounded look on his face. "We have ducks?"
Freya laughed then.
"I always wanted ducks," he mused.
"Go feed your ducks, Matthew," said Freya lightly, her way of letting him know she'd be okay.
By the time he left them, Minerva was smiling. Freya was shy all of a sudden. She'd never been a shy person.
She followed Atalanta to sit at the table, eyes passing over the variety of foods. There were tea cakes and little cucumber sandwiches— all very traditionally English. Then, there were atayef, which Freya recognised because Raina, in a bout of homesickness one day, had bought three dozen of them from a Lebanese food place in London.
Minerva noted her stare and went, "They were Ilyas's favourite." Her eyes took on that faraway look it had that day in the garden.
Atalanta cleared her throat and her glamorous grin returned. "Also my favourite," she chimed and picked one up, winking at Freya as she took a bite.
Freya accepted one as well, as Minerva set about pouring tea.
She wasn't as confused as she'd been that day weeks ago. She was sharper, a little reminiscent of the woman she once was.
Freya was stirring sugar into her tea— no milk. It must've been the Russian in her.
"Do you know the story about Hades and Persephone, Freya?" Freya was almost startled by the question and how much it transported her back to evenings spent with Matthew's mother, her younger self holding on to every morsel of myth she exhaled like it was imbued with ichor.
Freya had always liked stories. She'd thrown herself into the pages of a book when the truth of the world became too harsh. She became familiar with the lines of stories, they became her companions of ink and paper. Perhaps it was her affinity for stories had made her such a good liar.
Freya exhaled slowly before replying, "I'm sure you know it better than I."
Atalanta glanced between the two. But Minerva merely took a sip of tea before setting her cup down. The look she had on her face was the same one she'd wear before launching into a tale.
"Well, some say that he stole her and took her down into the Underworld, forced her to be his queen." Minerva shook her head. "And others claim that she accepted the crown willingly, took the pomegranate seeds in one hand and his hand in the next."
Freya thought of that first day in the garage, her eyes sparking with mirth as she recognised the name of Matthew's car. Queen of the Underworld, she'd said in amusement.
She shared a glance with Atalanta but Matthew's sister looked thoughtful whereas Freya was confused.
"Interesting," she managed to say.
Minerva cocked her head to the side, a distant look in her eye. Freya wondered if she walked among myth and monsters when she wasn't with them, when she had that faraway look about her.
"I prefer the second option," remarked Matthew's mother. "I don't think that story is about wrath and ruin like some claim. I think, at its core, it's a love story. You see, Persephone is a goddess too. Hades didn't make her his queen, she made herself. She's a masterful contradiction, life and death. It's a nicer story to hear."
It was a fairytale. But she'd learned a long time ago that fairytales weren't real. A love story can easily be a story of ruin as well. Wasn't theirs exactly that?
Freya wasn't a pretty little contradiction. She wasn't a glamorised story told around fire pits. She was an addict and there wasn't anything pretty about that. There was nothing poetic about the way she looked back on her past. There was only ache and that wasn't beautiful—it wasn't supposed to be.
Maybe there was poetry now, with him. But it wasn't all ballads and paintings. And she was smart enough to know that.
Freya had stopped believing stories a long time ago but she hadn't stopped telling them. And the lie tasted cruel on her lips as she smiled at Matthew's mother. "It's a beautiful story."
Minerva nodded, then smiled. "I remember when I told you stories like these all the time."
Freya laughed, but it was weak. Her heart was aching for Matthew's mother. "I always looked forward to them."
Atalanta blew out a breath, jarring Freya from her thoughts. "Trust me, I know," remarked the girl. "Anytime I tried to do anything else with you, you'd pull me back to the bloody library and make me listen." She was rolling her eyes.
Freya smiled at her and it was genuine. "You didn't object."
"Well," defended Atalanta, like the true lawyer she was— Victoria would be proud at such a display, chest puffed, eyes narrowed—, "it was either sit with you and listen to my mother talk about nymphs and yada yada. Or play with Matthew. No thank you."
"He's not so bad," Freya defended him with a tilt of her head.
Atalanta let out a disbelieving breath. "Who are you fooling, Arsov?" She shook her head furiously. "My brother is as dull as my law books." But her smile told Freya she didn't truly believe that.
Atalanta carried on with the charade anyway, holding a hand to her heart. "He's converted you to his side, hasn't he? Doesn't he know that we were friends first? Freya, I don't understand how you could betray me this way."
A retort was quick on Freya's lips, where she would playfully tell Atalanta that she would ditch her brother in a heartbeat and wed her in a meadow of flowers just to prove her loyalty, but Minerva cut the girls off, a smile on her lips. "Atalanta, be nice to your brother. And don't try to steal his girlfriend."
Girlfriend. She hadn't really known the extent that Matthew's mother had known. She hadn't asked him any more questions about it, knowing the subject was sore. But Minerva definitely had guessed something from the way the two of them had looked at each other before walking over to Westshire weeks ago.
The word made her fall silent, her chest warm.
She realised then why she'd been so nervous, so unlike herself. She realised she'd been scared she would be turned away. Maybe she was still carrying the feeling of being banished from the house next door, maybe she was still thinking over his aunt's words. Break his heart. It won't end well. Maybe she just didn't think she was good enough.
But Minerva al Nassar didn't seem to think so. No, that word solidified something she had been doubting internally. Freya had gotten what she'd come for.
Freya was good enough for Matthew. Sure, she was a liar, an addict, a girl with far too many loose ends. But she loved him and he loved her and it didn't have to be anything horrible. He was her shot at life forged from poetry and paint and beautiful things— a life apart from ruin. And she wanted that life with him. God, did she want it.
Freya found herself reaching across the table and taking Minerva's hand in hers. "I wouldn't dream of leaving him." A pointed look at Atalanta. "Not even for Atalanta, as pretty as she is."
Atalanta gave a huff and crossed her arms. "Traitor." She barely hid a smile.
✦ ✦ ✦
RAINA WAS SITTING OUT IN THE COLD, HIDDEN at the stone bench she and Anakin Graves had once sat it.
In her hands, she held the little burner phone. She'd been waiting for it to start buzzing as it had done that day. It had not.
Strings of twinkling familiar laughter licked at her ears and she looked up. Yes, she knew that laughter. Through the mask of the tree branches, green leaves hanging over her head, she recognised Freya's pale head and Amelie's short hair.
They were walking in step, two halves of a whole as they'd always been. It was nice to see. She could almost hear Freya's snarky words and Amelie's responding comment. Raina wished she could share in their jokes and smiles.
But the truth of the matter was, she'd never been a part of that unit, she'd never fit somewhere so perfectly that the other half moved like an extension of oneself.
Sure, Ebony House was an exception. But one day, they would no longer live in that old dorm house, one day, the world would come to greet them. And Raina al Hassan never knew where her place in the world was. It was in this sense that she'd pitied Anakin Graves, that she'd held his secrets.
Walking with Freya and Amelie, like yet another piece of the whole— the whole being Freya Arsov's heart— was Matthew, his dark head bent, a soft smile on his lips at whatever Freya had said.
Raina wasn't prepared for his light brown gaze to lift her way, as if the thought of Anakin Graves' name in her head had resounded in his own. Matthew paused, said something to the girls and before she knew what was happening, he was walking her way, hands in his pocket, at ease for all the world to see.
But he wasn't at ease and Raina knew better than to class him as nothing more than yet another careless male whose trust fund compensated for their emotional misgivings.
Matthew al Nassar had emotions and they were right there, behind his golden eyes as they touched upon Anakin's phone in her hands.
Raina felt Freya and Amelie glance her way. But whatever Matthew had said to them made them slowly carry on back to Ebony House, the former throwing a worried glance over her shoulder.
Raina and Freya hadn't ever discussed Anakin. It was like a thin layer of ice between the two. But Freya had always liked to do things the cold way and so it was only Raina left freezing.
Freya being cold didn't mean she was being awful. Raina knew better now. She wasn't the villain. She was just trying to stop an explosion.
Raina felt like it had already exploded though and she was left picking up the tatters.
"You two got pretty close, didn't you?" inquired Matthew, hands in his pockets as he slid onto the bench opposite her.
Raina instinctively curled her fingers around the phone. "No. We didn't. Not really."
Yet she'd kept his secrets, she'd felt the loss of his leaving. Maybe she'd seen too much of herself in Anakin Graves. Maybe she should have remembered that Anakin Graves wasn't even Anakin Graves.
A frown pulled at his lips and he lifted his gaze to hers. "It's okay to miss him, you know," said Matthew. "Just don't mourn him."
Conviction coated his last words— made of gunmetal.
Raina had to admit, she'd grown to like Matthew. He was kind, despite the whole I'm a big bad gang leader and I will shoot you if you touch my girlfriend vibe.
He was still only eighteen years old and Anakin Graves had been his best friend.
She cleared her throat. It was thick. "What if there's no one else to mourn him?"
Matthew straightened. Golden eyes turned hard. "We're not mourning him. Because he's not dead."
Raina saw it, the flashing pain behind his gaze. And she realised he was the only one here who cared to mourn Anakin Graves— the only one who understood.
"Do you really believe that?"
"Do you really believe that he's dead?"
Raina fell silent. She didn't believe that. But it had been weeks.
"So, what?" She muttered, feeling childish.
Matthew's determination rang in her ears. "We'll find him," said Matthew.
Raina wondered: who was him? Kirova or Anakin? What was this determination? Vengeance or a search for Anakin? Why were they chasing after a ghost?
But she didn't ask because Matthew's answers were as good as hers, she knew. They were just companions in a ghostly hope.
Matthew stood. "It's cold out here." He held a hand out to her, eyes kind.
Raina took it, swallowing her thoughts lest they explode from her. She shoved Anakin's phone in her pocket.
Matthew watched her do it and said, tone soft, "It's okay to miss him. I do too."
✦ ✦ ✦
wow, a light-hearted chapter, who knew?
also, 3 more parts people!