he couldn't have her. He couldn't.
Grayson Davenport Hawthorne had no luxury of making errors. Much less twice.

So he would do merry with what was bestowed upon him: friendship. Even if a ravenous part of him begged for him to have something more with her. 

Something he couldn't have with his dove.

"You're spacing out." Arlene's voice lulled him back to earth. Her amber eyes shining gold in the warmth of the ball dining hall. Grey eyes held them close just for a moment before looking ahead.

"Not quite." He reached to pull back a chair for her. Gentlemen behavior. Definitely not to ensure she'd take the seat next to his, of course. With a swift and graceful motion, Grayson was seated, fixing his tie. Meeting the eyes of every person around the table head on, offering nothing but a curt nod as greeting. 

Arlene mimicked his gesture. Her eyes scanning the crowd for her sister. Now that is going to be something Grayson would not be looking forward to.

Alisa led Avery to the pair of tables that the Hawthorne Foundation had purchased. At the table on the left, Nan was holding court among the white-haired set. The table on the right was half-filled with Hawthornes: Zara and Constantine, Nash, Grayson, and Xander. Avery tried to make a beeline for Nan's table, but Alisa sidestepped and gently steered her to the seat directly next to Grayson. Alisa took the next chair over, leaving only three open seats—one of which was for a certain Hawthorne brother unpresent. 

Grayson said nothing as Arlene went to smile brightly at her sister. Although it did not go unnoticed by him; Avery's strained smile. He would go to assume it had to do with her and his brother. 

None of my concern, he reminded himself, his eyes chilling into that cold grey he was known for. All while avoiding the image of Avery's braids as if the bubonic plague itself. 

"I didn't do this on purpose," Avery told him under her breath, trying to keep the expression on her face normal for the benefit of their audience, partygoers and photographers alike.

"Of course not," Grayson replied, his tone stiff, the words rote.

"I'd take the braid out if I could," She murmured. "But I can't do it myself."

His head tilted down slightly, his eyes closing, just for a moment. "I know."
Grayson had a hunch Avery would assume he was thinking about Emily. Yes. But most importantly how Emily's braid was always a cruel reminder of his dove's. A Tobias Hawthorne favourite hairstyle.

Breathe, Grayson. Breathe.

And he did. 

Not even realizing that under the table, his hand had slipped into that of a certain deadly doll's.

·······•✦•······

[ AVERY ]

 Avery hated hiding things from Arlene.

She tried convincing (more like fooling) herself to believe that this was just to get back at her sister keeping so many secrets from her herself, but the truth and guilt gnawing at her chest would never let her turn a blind eye to it.

Avery liked a man she wasn't supposed to for her sister's happiness. Avery kissed a man who knew nothing but playing games... and liking her sister.

How the hell did she get herself into this mess?

Sitting beside the guy she wasn't supposed to feel for but still did, did, in fact, not help her case. At all. Maybe Arlene was right about getting that new lock.

And the empty seat just existing beside her, reminding her of the player who liked her sister's absence was just salt to an open wound. A gushing one when she remembered her last conversation with Jameson Hawthorne.

Gods. That stupid, stupid stupid kiss. That stupid hoard of butterflies he gave her when he grabbed her ponytail, angled it in such a perfect way, the electricity sparking through her entire body was nothing compared to the intensity of his lips on her. The way his hands clawed on her until finding rest on her waist only to pull her impossibly closer. As if afraid to let go and yet loving the sting of having her too near.

Even hours, maybe days, gone by, the gentle tingles and lingering taste on her lips seemed to taunt Avery of her foolishness. Of thinking she would mean something to a Hawthorne.

Because the words he said after where what stung her the most.

"Not everything is a game," Avery choked out, her mind reeling with the amount of emotions she had to process under sixty seconds at once, "Jameson."

Avery saw something flicker in his eyes. He closed them, just for an instant, then opened them and leaned in, bringing his lips painfully close to hers. "That's the thing, Heiress. If Emily taught me anything, it's that everything is a game. Even this. Especially this."

Avery couldn't control her mouth anymore. "And what did you learn from Sarina then?" She barely caught the dripping disdain in her voice. But she did catch the freeze of his shoulders as she pulled way. "Tell me, Jameson. If Emily taught you that emotions of people are just dices to throw around, I wonder what Dear Miss Salva enlightened you with."

"Avery." Her heart sank at his usage of her real name but her face remained stubbornly accusatory, "Don't bring her into this." Jameson's voice was a low, sure growl. "You and Rina have barely scratched the surface of the secrets hidden in this house."

Rina. There he goes again, calling Arlene 'Rina'.

"Why the name, then?" Avery crossed her arms, looking at him defiantly. "Why do you keep calling her Rina? Sarina is not my sister." Just the thought of her sister ending up like the girl or Emily made Avery sick. 

"Or so you blindly think." What? "Tell me, heiress," Jameson didn't use that title as an endearment anymore. "How well do you even know your sister? What's her favourite color? What is her favourite flower? Does she do arts? Who is her favourite artist? Does she prefer coffee or tea?"

Avery blinked, her mind searching for answers, but her tongue going numb. "I—"

"Light blue, grey almost. Jasmine; for the scent and symbolism of purity. Sculpting, oil painting, watercolor but questionable at pottery. Lana Del Rey, and," Jameson bore into Avery's eyes, "Tea. Preferably lemon green with honey."

The silence was not the only speechless being in the room.

"Do you know why I know this all about Rina, heiress?" Jameson arched brow, his form leaning against the bathroom wall casually, as if this was simple small talk. "It's because I have been observing. I have been observing your sister since the day I laid my eyes on her. I have been drinking in every detail of hers to find."

"Because all of those little things, Arina shared, and..." He pushed himself to his feet. "because I never gave up."

He never gave up on that little girl. Avery remembered Arlene telling her about how Sarina's body was never recovered. How it disappeared in the ruins of the fire. And Jameson still believed in her.

On the fact that, maybe one day, the dove might fly back home.

"Sarina, dearest Avery," his fingers brushed against her cheek, tucking back a loose strand of hair and probably her heart along with, behind her ears, "was no game. Sarina was everything to all of us. She was the light we had to see the word, the water to swim in and the air to breathe." Those deep emerald eyes were trying to drown Avery, she was sure of it, "She taught us one thing and only one."

He pulled back with a rueful smile.

" Even Hawthornes can be human."

Avery's arm bumped into Alisa's wineglass. The Ortega tried to catch it but couldn't move fast enough. Avery just watched with dull eyes, expecting to find the cutlery piece toppled on the white cloth, bleeding it red. Realizing what should have been obvious from the start, from the moment the will had been read. Avery didn't belong in a world like this—not at this party, not sitting beside Grayson Hawthorne. She never did and never would.

And yet the glass never toppled.

"Pass me the fancy salt dispenser," Arlene smiled, her arm reaching easily, her fingers stabilizing the wineglass so perfectly, as if it never was moved, "will, ya, Avie?"

One thing about Arlene that Avery did know on her own: Arlene never ever asked for extra salt. 

This girl... Avery had to fight demons to keep that smile from forming on her lips, from those tears pricking the corner of her eyes. She wordlessly handed her sister the salt, but god she wanted to burst out into flames of love as she noticed how Arlene saved Avery from nearing Grayson by coming forward herself.

She wanted nothing else but to take her sister away, find Libby, get into her old car and sob her heart out, reveling in the fact that someone would simply listen.

Fate had other plans for the Grambs.

Arlene's name was called, Thea smiling as she held Avery's sister by hand, "A toast from our very owner of the Hawthorne Fortune." 

All senses in Avery's body multiplied by a thousand more. She wanted to protest, protect her sister from the what dread in her stomach might have been. But all eyes were watching, and they couldn't afford to break the act.

"Come here Arlene," Thea tugged her close to the center of the room. "Everyone, the museum is forever grateful for Arlene Amira Grambs to let loan famous works from the Tobias Hawthorne collection." She held up a glass in the air. 

And Avery's world shattered when the screams rang from the speakers.

·······•✦•······ 

"NO!" The black screen screamed. A child's voice, filled with agony. I couldn't breathe. "You're not supposed to be here!" I knew that voice. 

I knew that voice because it was mine when I was child.

The black flickered into a static, before I saw the flames.

The entire room was dead silent, only the cackling fires, blasting curtains and falling wood rang loud and clear. Along with the shrieks.

Shrieks of a little body burning. The red of her dress blazing and her hair wild and free, curtaining her face. 

"You have to go back!" I couldn't see her. I don't think I dare would. The raw, unbridled pain in her every word was enough to never leave my head. 

More so was the fact that another voice called, although soft compared, "Sarina..."

Why? Why was this happening?

Why did feel so so close to home?

The camera toppled down, the wind muffling the mic, her anguished conversation with whoever was unfortunate enough to stand before her, unclear.

"Run..." The last thing I saw before the chandelier crushed me under its weight was her face. She had soft, sandy skin. Her eyes a startling shine of gold. Lashes curved and nose running like the tears down her little round, young cheeks. They held a strange softness in their sharpness. A strange innocence in the fleeting life that flickered in her eyes.

The last thing I saw before the glass shards pierced into ever part of my skin, flesh and bones, was the face of the burning Sarina Salva. 

Who looked exactly like me.

The last thing I heard from the speakers of the screen, was her screaming out someone's name.

"ARLENE!"

·······•✦•······

Warmth. He would always find me at my worst. He was warmth.

"Arlene," Those large, gentle hands cupped my face. The world was a blur of noises, dots and people. To me, the only clear existence that was meaningful was that of Grayson Davenport Hawthorne's. "Arlene, god, darling, stay with me."

He had a smooth and exquisitely deep voice. Almost more British than American. I never understood why. Wasn't he raised in Texas? What was he like as a child? Did he and his brothers ever bicker over little things? Was Skye not lying about his lack of clothing desire till he was four? 

"Sweetheart, don't you dare close your eyes, do you hear me?" Sweetheart? I don't think friends call each other sweetheart. Especially not in that tone. 

Maybe I didn't want to be. I feared it, blamed it on the blood loss dizziness, but I wanted to know him. I wanted to know him like no one else ever did or could.

I wanted to know him as well as his dove did.

Another presence joined us, Oren's barking instructions making my ears ring, as a result, I let out a pathetic sound close to a whimper. Warm hands pulled me closer in his embrace, ever careful of the glass shards in me. 

"Arlene," The simplest action of tucking my hair back made me wanted to chain a rebelliously thumping heart that grew wings in my chest. "It's going to be okay." He pleaded, "God, you idiot..."

I don't think friends kissed each other's temples so adoringly. I don't think I cared. 

Anything more and I would be sure the blood loss and tetanus wouldn't kill me before my mind and cardiac arrest would.

I hate to say it. But more than anything at that moment the universe could have offered me...

I wanted Grayson Davenport Hawthorne.

I wanted him so bad, I hated myself every second for it. I promised myself I was happy with just my girls. I promised myself I needed no such being as a Hawthorne. I fooled myself to believe that after the disaster in my life named Arthur, I could never desire someone else. 

Desire someone in such innocence. In such gentle affectionate manner. Desire to be held like this in his arms forever, be safe from the world, be at peace, for even a moment of my life. Desire to be the thing that lights up his eyes, desire to listen to his bright, joyous laughter he so rarely, if ever, unveiled. I wanted to be the one to hold him, to see him break and fix him back stronger than ever before. 

I wanted to be his as he would be mine.

Fuck, I was getting delusional.

"Ugh..." I stupidly sat up, the glass digging in deeper, his arms tensing around me, "Motherfucking bitch..."

"Good to know you still have color in your vocabulary, doll." He smiled, ignoring the way his voice choked him. The way his eyes flickered with recognition of a person who could not be.

I was not his dove. I never will be.

That was a nice bitter pill to swallow. Enough for me to make agonizing distance between us, even if a few extra inches; inches that cracked his smile.

"John," I coughed out, blood splattering everywhere. And yet the Hawthorne pulled me closer, not caring if I ruined his overly expensive armani tuxedo. "Shit..."

"Arlene!" Avery rushed towards me, kneeling down beside Grayson. My pride swelled a bit at the fact that she prioritized my well being before the whole Hawthorne drama fiasco. And it bloated even more at the sight of Thea beside me.

"Theadora," Grayson called in a low, threatening voice that made shivers run down my spine, "Leave."

Thea looked up, her face a clear painting of shock and guilt, "I didn't plan for this—"

"Leave." That was a final order. And a very obvious promise of malice.

God, give me a break already. 

My head lolled onto his shoulders, my eyes drooping dangerously. I could hear the muffled voice around me not for long until they became a lullaby to my slumber. 

And even if I knew I shouldn't. 
I felt safe letting the walls crumble while with him.

·······•✦•······

Well, god, fuck you, respectfully.

Now I've never drank a sip of alcohol in my life time (not that I can remember anyways) but this was by far worser than any hangover I could've ever been forsaken with. 

Groaning, the vision of my dear hospital of a room blinked into my sight. My elbows pushed up the weight of fifty thousand cows made of stone to sit me up.

"Goodmorning." God, once again, why me? More importantly why him of all people? "You had me worried for a long, arduous moment, doll."

"You tell me, Pretty Boy," I rubbed my eyes awake, "I've been worrying myself these days."

Grayson leaned closer, I just now realized how near he was to my face. Memory of flames falling, lips on lips, hand cupping face—no! No, bad brain. Not now.

"Where does it hurt?"

"Does everywhere count?"

"Hardly quite." He his lips curved up and so did my mood. 

"What time is it?" My sight ripping away from his to search for a clock. 

"You should be asking what day it is, doll."

"Day?"

"Like I said," He subtly slipped his hand into mine, "A long, arduous moment. A day worth, really."

"So you could not have simply said today is tomorrow?" I frowned. 

"If only things were ever so simple, my dear." I had a feeling he wasn't talking about the timeline anymore. I closed my eyes. Her face etched in my brain. My face. The day she died was the day I was born. She was brought up with the Hawthornes in Texas while I was in some part of America, miles away. She was soft, gentle, kind. I was raised to do much worse than kill a man.

There was no way. No. Way.

"I'm not her, Grayson." The words hurt. But I had to tell them. Because lord, just looking at him became the sweetest form of punishment for me. His cold, frosty grey eyes, now so warm and open. Vulnerable.

"I know." He whispered, his fingers tangling against mine, as if trying to say: I don't need you to be. Maybe I really was going crazy.

I couldn't take this much more. He was far too close. His breath practically fanning against my lips. Everything in my head was blaring 'Pull back! Pull back!' but my body and that one organ that did a cardio twenty four by seven decided otherwise. 

Gold flickered from rosy red to grey. Then again.

"What are you doing to me?' We both admitted to the silence in hushed, breathless voices.

I couldn't look away. I couldn't move away. I was frozen and burning at the same time.

I wanted to kiss him. 

There I said it in my head, all I wanted to do that moment was place my lips on his. Forget my existence until we were one of the other. 

And I did.

I don't know what possessed me, but without adrenaline to blame, without the excuse to ground myself, I kissed him. I initiated it this time. And he deepened it.

His hands found my cheeks, mine found a home in his hair. Each of my fingers threading through those gorgeous gold locks as if the finest silk on earth. Grayson Davenport Hawthorne had lips made for the sole purpose of kissing. Gentle, soft, and sculpted in ways they would mold perfectly against mine. He was beautiful at that moment. His lips parting to let out low, airy sounds of pleasure, dare I say affection. He tilt his head in an angle that made it deeper, his thumb gently caressing the bones of my cheeks.

He didn't pull away this time. Our lips parted only for a suck of air before they were at eachother again. He was trembling with passion, and I knew, I shamelessly was pulling him closer and closer. He stood up, leaning in my touch, one of his hands now splayed against my neck, holding me still as he kept demanding more of my taste. 

"Arlene..." Oh, how I would spontaneously combust then and there if I could. The way he called my name. My name, a noun I never thought could make fireworks explode in the caverns of my chest when said like that. "Darling," He cut himself off, going in for another kiss.

"Grayson..." That wasn't just his name. No, that was me breaking down every shield I cowered behind, every wall that towered my confidence in me, ever bar that caged me in my inhibitions. 

One kiss. Another kiss. Another and another and another and oxygen became overrated.  

Both of us never wanted the moment to end. 
But both of us knew exactly why it