Page 16 of When Lies Unfold

“An accident.”

His fingers flex around my throat, his voice deepening with warning. “Be specific.”

“When I was…younger…” I strive for composure, drawing in a much-needed breath before continuing. “I was climbing a fence topped with barbed wire. It was raining, and I lost my balance. My hand slipped and slammed down on one of the spikes.”

His grip eases on my left hand to trace his fingers over the scarred tissue disguised by my tattoos. “Had to have hurt pretty damn bad from the feel of it.”

He’s not wrong. It’d been some of the most debilitating pain I’ve ever endured.

“How’d you get the scars on your face?”

“An accident when I was younger.”

He makes a noise that indicates his disapproval. “An accident with what?”

“I tripped carrying something and fell into some of the glass pieces.”

A pause precedes his, “Huh.” Predictably, his next question is, “Why the butterfly tattoos?”

I knew he’d pry again. The bastard wants to know every fine detail.

“Because they’re pretty.”

Palpable irritation emanates off him in thick waves. “I want the real answer.”

The real answer’s none of your goddamn business. I swallow the urge to voice that. “Because they represent a transformation—and a freedom.” My response is muted, my words clipped.

I’d been desperate to conceal the visible pain of my past with something symbolic. An image representing the promise I’d made to myself. To give the damaged flesh a second chance.

Just like the one I’d been given.

“Freedom, huh?” He grunts. “That important to you?”

“Yes.”

Silence greets my simplistic answer. When he brings his mouth close to my ear, his lips and breath dust along the shell of it with each word. “Better answer me right away next time, Miss Arias. Or you’re not gonna like the outcome.”

My breathing hitches as a shiver rolls through me, but it’s not entirely out of terror from his threat. The heat of his breath dusting along my skin and the intimate quality of his voice curl around me, waking up senses I’ve long since ignored when it comes to men.

What the hell is wrong with me? Mentally shrugging off my insane reaction to this man, I focus on calming my breathing, because I need him to leave me the hell alone. To stop probing about things that don’t pertain to him.

As abruptly as he initially grabbed me, he releases me and steps back with the knife in hand while pieces of my ceramic mug crunch beneath his shoes.

I spin around in time to witness him toss the knife into the sink. It clatters noisily before settling in place.

My gaze clashes with his as he regards me like a puzzle he’s trying his damnedest to solve. But that’s not what I want or need.

Far from it.

Leave me the fuck alone, I silently plead. But he doesn’t make any indication he’s preparing to leave. His phone does ping, however.

His sinister focus remains locked on me as he withdraws his cell from his pocket. Relief pummels me once he averts his attention to whatever notification he’s received.

My relief is short-lived, however. When his attention returns to me, his expression resembles a turbulent storm as he pockets his phone.

“You expectin’ company?”

What the hell is he talking about? I gesture to my braless state, including my coffee-stained tank top and messy, unkempt look. I don’t bother suppressing my exasperated sarcasm, my temper officially frayed. “Does it look like I’m expecting company?”

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