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Authors: Carrie Ryan
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toward me with a frown. No doubt wondering how I’d know all of this—wondering how much Frances must have told me of their conversations.
But to ask would be to bring up the
Persephone
. And I know the moment he realizes this because he presses his lips together and resumes walking.
Softly, I set my fingertips against his forearm just below where he’s rolled up the sleeves. The muscles tense under my touch as I turn him toward me. “This is either going to be a very long walk or a very short one if we try to avoid what we’re both thinking.”
Relief and wariness war in his eyes, which have turned the smoky color of the cloud-shadowed waves crashing to shore. His pulse thrums along his throat, but he says nothing.
“The
Persephone
,” I murmur. I didn’t even believe it was possible, but his expression becomes even more guarded, his jaw clenching. But still he remains silent.
I cross my arms and turn, looking out at the sea. The waves are now tipped with white, growing angrier as the gray sky on the horizon presses toward shore. I shiver, as much from the bite of the wind as the memory of the last time I stood with Grey as a storm approached.
We’d been kissing. His hand against the curve of my bare lower back, pulling me against him. It was the last perfect moment of my life before everything was shattered.
Something warm and soft falls across my shoulders, shrouding me in a familiar smell. It’s Grey’s shirt, and I turn to find him standing in a plain white undershirt that stretches tight across his chest, molding to his muscles.
“You were shivering,” he says, as though I’d asked for an explanation.
If I knew nothing else about Greyson Wells, I’d assume he was the perfect guy. Good-looking, wealthy, charming. Caring. Nice.
But that’s the problem. I’ve seen him lie—seen him stare straight at the cameras and tell the world that a rogue wave took out the
Persephone
. I know just how skilled he is at deception. How convincing.
For a while, he’d even made me second-guess my own memories from the night of the attack.
I realize now just how dangerous of a game I’ve begun. How easy it would be to forget who Grey really is and what he’s done. I tilt my head back, looking up at him and making myself appear small and vulnerable. “I don’t remember anything,” I tell him.
There’s a flash of confusion.
“About the
Persephone
,” I explain. After a beat I add, “Nothing.”
He steps back, raising his hand to the back of his neck and rubbing vigorously. “At all?”
I shake my head.
“How?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. Tell him the perfectly crafted lie. “The doctors all have a different theory. Post-traumatic stress. Some argued I probably hit my head when the wave struck. Or that dehydration and malnutrition messed with things. Apparently maritime history is rife with stories of people lost at sea losing their minds. It’s not uncommon.”
He lets this sink in, walking toward the ocean until the tips of the waves slide around his toes. I stand slightly behind him, out of reach of the water, waiting.
A muscle twitches along his jaw as he clenches his teeth. “And Frances?”
ELEVEN
S omething tight squeezes my heart at the sound of my name on his lips. I look down at my hands, fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt. Libby’s signet ring gleams in the dull light. “I remember a few things.” My voice comes out broken; it’s perhaps the most honest thing I’ve said to him so far.
“She didn’t say anything, though?” He faces me, scrutinizing my reactions. “When you were on the lifeboat together? About what happened on the
Persephone
when she sank?”
Shaking my head I tell him, “They tried everything to try to fix my memory: hypnosis, therapy, drug treatments.” I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath. “But I don’t want to remember. Please.” I feel the tears burning, forcing their way free. “Please don’t make me remember.” I
But to ask would be to bring up the
Persephone
. And I know the moment he realizes this because he presses his lips together and resumes walking.
Softly, I set my fingertips against his forearm just below where he’s rolled up the sleeves. The muscles tense under my touch as I turn him toward me. “This is either going to be a very long walk or a very short one if we try to avoid what we’re both thinking.”
Relief and wariness war in his eyes, which have turned the smoky color of the cloud-shadowed waves crashing to shore. His pulse thrums along his throat, but he says nothing.
“The
Persephone
,” I murmur. I didn’t even believe it was possible, but his expression becomes even more guarded, his jaw clenching. But still he remains silent.
I cross my arms and turn, looking out at the sea. The waves are now tipped with white, growing angrier as the gray sky on the horizon presses toward shore. I shiver, as much from the bite of the wind as the memory of the last time I stood with Grey as a storm approached.
We’d been kissing. His hand against the curve of my bare lower back, pulling me against him. It was the last perfect moment of my life before everything was shattered.
Something warm and soft falls across my shoulders, shrouding me in a familiar smell. It’s Grey’s shirt, and I turn to find him standing in a plain white undershirt that stretches tight across his chest, molding to his muscles.
“You were shivering,” he says, as though I’d asked for an explanation.
If I knew nothing else about Greyson Wells, I’d assume he was the perfect guy. Good-looking, wealthy, charming. Caring. Nice.
But that’s the problem. I’ve seen him lie—seen him stare straight at the cameras and tell the world that a rogue wave took out the
Persephone
. I know just how skilled he is at deception. How convincing.
For a while, he’d even made me second-guess my own memories from the night of the attack.
I realize now just how dangerous of a game I’ve begun. How easy it would be to forget who Grey really is and what he’s done. I tilt my head back, looking up at him and making myself appear small and vulnerable. “I don’t remember anything,” I tell him.
There’s a flash of confusion.
“About the
Persephone
,” I explain. After a beat I add, “Nothing.”
He steps back, raising his hand to the back of his neck and rubbing vigorously. “At all?”
I shake my head.
“How?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. Tell him the perfectly crafted lie. “The doctors all have a different theory. Post-traumatic stress. Some argued I probably hit my head when the wave struck. Or that dehydration and malnutrition messed with things. Apparently maritime history is rife with stories of people lost at sea losing their minds. It’s not uncommon.”
He lets this sink in, walking toward the ocean until the tips of the waves slide around his toes. I stand slightly behind him, out of reach of the water, waiting.
A muscle twitches along his jaw as he clenches his teeth. “And Frances?”
ELEVEN
S omething tight squeezes my heart at the sound of my name on his lips. I look down at my hands, fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt. Libby’s signet ring gleams in the dull light. “I remember a few things.” My voice comes out broken; it’s perhaps the most honest thing I’ve said to him so far.
“She didn’t say anything, though?” He faces me, scrutinizing my reactions. “When you were on the lifeboat together? About what happened on the
Persephone
when she sank?”
Shaking my head I tell him, “They tried everything to try to fix my memory: hypnosis, therapy, drug treatments.” I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath. “But I don’t want to remember. Please.” I feel the tears burning, forcing their way free. “Please don’t make me remember.” I
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