Chapter 3

PEN

Much to her dismay, navigating meant riding in the passenger seat. She grunted as she squirmed in her seat, her feet barely touching the floor, her toes skimming the mat. Storm laughed sharply before clearing his throat and covering his mouth with a fist. Pen eyed him sidelong.

"What?" she snapped.

He pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "Nothing."

Nostrils flaring, Pen narrowed her eyes, taking in his posture, the way he leaned forward, both hands on the wheel like a new driver. Holy shit, Neil Storm was nervous. Well, that was new.

She knew she shouldn't, but Pen found a bit of satisfaction in the knowledge. She watched him in her periphery, tilting her head as he ran a hand through his curls, fingers catching in knots.

When the light hit him just right (and really any other time), he looked remarkably handsome, and as much as she hated him, well, she would enjoy the view. As if sensing her stare, his green eyes slid to hers, face expressionless. She tried to ignore the way her nerves twisted, or the way she shuddered when she met his gaze through the tinted lenses, but something else lurked beneath the surface of his severe expression as his eyes lingered on her.

Pen frowned but returned her attention to her phone. When it seemed like they'd driven away from civilization completely, the area surrounded by a smattering of homes and farms, she motioned for Storm to pull over. Before them was a run-down castle, the building merely ruins. Its stone walls dripped with ivy, and the whole of the property was surrounded by a chain-link fence. As soon as they shifted into park, Daniela quickly exited the car, dragging a sleepy Laszlo with her, and together, they disappeared around the back of the castle, phones poised for photos.

Storm brushed away a few curls, tilting his head forward to show off the thin streak of silver skin that cut into his brow. The very sight had the pit in her stomach dropping.

Pen grumbled as she opened her door and stepped down, pulling on her jacket with a shiver. She'd hated that she'd fallen to throwing books, hated that he knew how to push her buttons, whether he meant to or not. But there was a part of her, a small one, that regretted stooping so low. Teeth clenched, she rounded the van and hurried past him.

"You know, you never apologized!" he called. Pen staggered to a stop, her back to him, heart thundering as she froze in place.

He continued, "Even after everything that happened, you never even reached out. I don't understand why you needed to make it all so public and leave me to clean up the mess. Poof and you were gone from the world."

She spun toward him. "Well, you could very well apologize for everything that happened. For writing Trent the way that you did, for all your books, for the hurtful stereotypes you include, catering to your white readers." She stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You had the chance to do something great, and you blew it."

"So, you're still blaming me for all of it?"

"Of course I am! I looked up to you once, Storm. I looked up to you and you failed me." Pen hated how quickly the tears came, but she felt the heat grow behind her eyes and the disappointment sink in her stomach.

"Wait, are you crying?" he asked, hand inching up. She thought she saw something resembling guilt in his eyes, and the sight had her stumbling out of reach. What the hell was going on?

Pen wiped hastily at her eyes. "Do you ever stop to think about your decisions and how they affect other Native creators? Do you ever think about the repercussions of your choices?"

He said nothing for a long moment, and she couldn't tell if the words had any effect on him, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, the lenses darkening when he tilted his head just so. But then his blank expression quickly stretched. He smiled with something akin to admiration, leaning back.

"Penelope Skinner, you never cease to amaze me. You're always so brutally honest." He shrugged, his smile settling into something more natural. "I respect that."

She huffed, crossing her arms. "Why are you even here? What need do you have for a writer's retreat?"

There was something almost sheepish about the way Neil scoffed. He kicked the gravel with the toe of his boot. Had she… offended him?

"Every writer struggles."

She gasped, pressing a hand to her heart. "Neil Storm," she said with reverence, "are you struggling to write your next novel?" She was egging him on, but she couldn't help it. He was the Neil Storm, the man she'd sworn to tear down. And he was… struggling ? With his writing? The end of the world had to be near, because Pen never thought she'd see the day.

He pulled off his sunglasses, eyes steady on her. They were brighter than she remembered, clearer, even as he drawled, "Says the woman who hasn't had a single book published in five years."

It was an echo of his words on the panel. She sank back on her heels, shoulders scrunching up as she opened and closed her mouth, floundering for a retort. It hurt because it was true. She was a failure, and they all knew it. Pen bit down into her lip hard. What was she doing here, really? Why had she agreed to go halfway around the world to flounder before a group of successful authors? She should give up and commit to editing full-time. She should move back home with her mom and stop trying to be someone she wasn't.

Storm must have seen it in her eyes because he reached out, as if to console her. "I'm sorry," he started.

"What are you doing?" she snapped, taking a step back. Of all the people in the world, he was the last person she wanted to console her.

He worked his jaw. "I didn't mean to…" He puffed out his cheeks, an almost boyish action, and there was that pain in his eyes again as if she'd hurt him. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"That's all you are, Storm! Rude, uncaring, cold. Just like your books. Just like your characters, just like every fucking reader who decided that one skirmish was enough to cancel me and ruin my life."

"You did that yourself, Skinner! You threw the book. You said those words. And you ran away when the going got tough and you were too afraid to face what you did. Stop pretending like this was all my fault."

The words rang out in the silence between them, and as angry and frustrated as she was, she knew it was true. She threw up her hands, spinning toward the castle. God, this trip was already turning out to be a disaster, and they weren't even to the retreat yet. If this was the result of a day in the car together, what would happen after a week in a castle?

She stopped on the walkway, hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket as she looked toward where Laszlo and Daniela had vanished around the side of the castle. Storm shoved past her with a huff, disappearing in the same direction.

Pen breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, calming her erratic pulse. She was here for inspiration, not to fight with Storm. Problem was, he knew just how to egg her on, how to turn every little thing into a weapon against her. She needed to stop getting so riled up. The anger whooshed out of her as she stared at the castle, pausing to admire the ruins of what must have been a beautiful home. It was neither large nor small, a castle for a comfortable family, perhaps.

As she walked closer, she forgot about Storm and imagined what it must have been like to be the owner of a castle of any size, to be the sort of person to host parties and balls and banquets in large stone rooms with giant fireplaces. The more she looked, the more she could picture what it must have been like in the height of its time.

Pen rounded the corner of the castle, no Daniela or Laszlo to be seen. Large signs across the fence read NO TRESPASSING in bold, black font. A hole had been torn in the fence some time ago, the sharp edges filed away and rusted from exposure, the opening just large enough for an adult to fit through.

Storm stood before it, scratching the stubble lining his jaw as he peered beyond the fence. He half turned to Pen and, pressing his finger to his lips as if to say, "This is our little secret," slipped through the fence and vanished into the ruins.

"Are you fucking kidding me," she grumbled as she stepped up to the same spot.

She surveyed the area, noting several pipes poking out from the layer of dirt, as well as broken pieces of stone from the castle walls. Pen peeked over her shoulder at the heather-sprinkled hills, crumbling stone fences, and quaint homes. The castle was surrounded by farms. Certainly, the four of them weren't the first people to stumble upon the ruins, but from the look of the rust along the fence, they wouldn't be the first to ignore the signs either.

"This could be great fuel for a story," she said, hands gripping the fence. Or it could get them in trouble. Either way, how many times in her life would she have the chance to wander castle ruins? With the smallest of smiles, Pen ducked through the opening in the fence.

It was truly like something out of a fairy tale; Pen had never seen anything like it. The floor was a forest of leaves and dirt and ivy and moss. The debris was velvety under her feet, and the castle had been blanketed with a thick layer of greenery. In fact, it looked so inviting that Pen thought momentarily of lying down and taking a nap in it. The outside had reached through the last remaining walls of the castle and scraped its nails across every surface, leaving behind drapes of ivy, living, breathing nature overtaking humanity once more. It was like a small, dystopian world, and already ideas and images were flashing through Pen's mind.

She was careful where she stepped, eyes trained on a path through the castle floor created by fellow rebels. Parts of the floor had caved completely, large gaps in the dirt exposing what must have once been a cellar of sorts, only darkness waiting for Pen when she peered down into it.

Brick and stone were piled in abandoned clumps, entire stairs missing as they led up to the tops of turrets. Pausing, Pen angled her head back, imagining what it must have been like. The wallpaper that might have been plastered to the walls, the fireplace that roared to life in the heart of the kitchens.

The castle would have been beautiful in an entirely different way. Still, it was beautiful as it was, in its fallen state. Lush and green despite the bit of graffiti and garbage abandoned in large rooms and empty halls. It was mystical.

She inhaled the fragrance of the ruins. It smelled of earth and dampness, a strange musky scent lingering around her. It was silent but for the light traipsing of the others in the distance, scouring through the ruins. The peace and quiet that it allotted were much needed after her little squabble with Neil Storm.

Pen paused in a large rectangular room, most of the walls around her still standing. She ran her hands over the moss-covered stone, relishing its plushness. It was nice to get outside, to see a bit of the world for once. She'd been pushing back travel for so many reasons until they'd stacked and stacked and stacked. Who would take care of Apawllo while she was gone? What if she couldn't finish a deadline before vacation?

Penelope Skinner wasn't often a coward, but in this, she was. She liked being comfortable, liked the familiarity of her home and her couch, and coming here to Scotland felt like her own private challenge.

Scotland seemed to settle some ache in her shoulders, calm her breathing. It was a gentle country with rolling green fields flecked with purple heather and musical accents that lulled her to sleep. She'd found a strange sense of peace since she'd come here.

But of course, it hadn't lasted long.

Neil Storm had ruined it, as he did with all things. And as Pen wandered through an old doorway, she came to a stop, hands gripping the stone as she peered around the wall.

He was seated like a sculpture at the base of crumbling stairs, head in his hands, a swirl of emotions flitting over his face as he buried his fingers in his curls with a deep, guttural sigh. While his appearance had always been clean and pressed, he needed a haircut. Ever since the Incident, he'd let his curls grow, let them lengthen and knot, and Pen had the odd urge to run her fingers through the mess, to untangle it.

The thought made her stomach twist viciously, and she peered over her shoulder to go, but she found she didn't want to. Swallowing, she froze, her emotions warring. If she left, he'd either see or hear her. But if she announced her presence instead, he'd probably claim she was following him.

There were simply no good solutions here.

Finally, Pen turned, ready to flee back through the large room, but the image of Storm grabbed hold of her. He tore at his hair, teeth gritted, pain breaking across his features. She didn't want to feel it, didn't even want to think it, but Pen found herself pitying him. She knew, in some way, that she was to blame for this feeling. Whether or not he'd deserved to be put in his place, Penelope Skinner suddenly wished he'd be the person she knew he could be.

Be the young, excited author he'd been once upon a time.

The one she'd looked up to.

The one who'd been her hero.

But that Neil Storm was gone, and this echo of that boy she'd once admired was left in his place. And it was all her fault.