Crash and Burn (1)

what do you want, princess?

♚ ♛

"NO ONE."

His absentminded shrug jolted my system. He wasn't going to tell me anything, and I didn't know if I wanted to know anything. If I needed to know anything. Soren looked as rough as I felt, in heavy, dripping denim, clammy skin under cloudy light, flashing a fatigued grin, hooking my belt loops and—

Breathlessly, I jerked away. I took a step back. He took a step forward. He'd said two years, and I... "Don't you... you're not going to ask who I was to him?"

Quiet, careful fingers, toying at the hem of my tank top. "I don't care."

My throat tightened. It would be better. I didn't want to explain anything, and I knew, if he had asked, I would've lied. It would be better for both of us.

Breathe.

"Soren..." It rolled off my tongue unplanned, and I saw it hit him, a fleeting darkness passing over an ocean, an ashy amusement, a dusky gold, burning down, down, down. His gaze, lighting a fire in its wake, to where I felt his fingertips, fluttering over the waistband of my jeans.

"Lacey..."

"It's Raine," I muttered, tucking my hair behind my ear as I squirmed in his light hold, desperate to hide my flushed cheeks.

His lips flirted into a tiny, haughty smile. "It was Raine first, right?"

Why the fuck didn't I lie? "It was."

"Oh, princess," he snickered, pinching my chin playfully, "you and I both know you can't go back."

Fuck him.

There was no going back.

"Why, you don't like it?" His curious rasp, a random, harmless question. "I like Lacey."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Oh, yeah?"

"Very cute." He shot me a sharp smile. "It fits, princess."

"Don't:" I shoved at his chest frantically, and I tripped when Soren stumbled, off-balance, tumbling into him. My knees buckled. Exhaustion. He steadied us. Closer. His hands, catching, looping around my wrists, dragging them up to hook around the nape of his neck. Our chests collided, and I buried a hand into his damp curls, breathless, inches from his lips. "Stop... calling me that," I mumbled. "Stop."

"Why?" His knuckles brushed along my cheek softly, tauntingly. "Hit a nerve?"

"No." I tried to backtrack again, put space between us, remember to breathe, but Soren didn't let go. Soren held me, pressed tightly against his chest, soggy clothing, slick skin, smoky sighs, and fuck, I didn't want him to let go.

Breathe.

He'd hit a nerve. He'd hit a few nerves.

It was an endearment that held too many memories, too many promises and too many lies, and even if it didn't sound nearly as threatening from Soren, it reopened old wounds that I'd thought would be healed by now, that were supposed to be healed by now.

"I don't like it." His thumbs, rubbing at my hip. "I don't feel like royalty," I snickered, shrugging as I looked past him pointedly. It was a dirty, dimly lit room, a single lightbulb in a broken fixture, casting shifty shadows across scuffed surfaces, its ceiling stained, years of neglect evident by soggy sections, blackened rings, gaping holes of darkness. Mold. Musty. Humid. Hardly the Four Seasons.

His gaze felt heavy. Fuck. Soren could see right through me. "No?"

I took a timid step (a creak of a footfall on floorboards) toward a mattress in the corner, half-covered by a frayed, worn sheet, a size or two too small for a King.