Page 227 of By His Rule

It’s the massive, spray-painted word above my headboard that makes my entire body tremble with anger.

Whore.

Disbelief and fury rush through me as I stand there staring.

Only one person pops into my head as the culprit. But…surely not.

Surely, he wouldn’t stoop so low?

“Lorelei?” I barely register the deep rasp as I continue staring at the destruction of my bedroom.

But the second he steps up behind me and the heat of his body burns down the length of mine, I jump forward.

Only, I don’t get anywhere, because his arm bands around my waist, holding me tightly to him.

I might still be shaking, but as he holds me, it’s impossible to miss the way his own body trembles violently.

“You need to come with me,” he states, his voice at odds with his body’s visceral reaction.

He moves us both backward, and for a few seconds, I allow it. But then reality hits and I anchor my feet to the ground.

“No,” I argue, ripping free from his grasp.

A bitter, dangerous-sounding laugh spills from his lips.

“This isn’t up for discussion, Lorelei,” he states. “You’re not staying here.”

“Then I’ll go to Tate’s. I’m not going with you.”

His brows furrow, before he firmly refuses to accept my suggestion.

“Is there anything else you need before we leave?”

I watch as he picks up my suitcase. My lips part to refuse again, but it would be pointless, and I quickly give up.

Glancing back at my bedroom, a lump of emotion that was absent the first time I saw it crawls up my throat.

The anger has subsided a little and the cold, harsh reality that someone has been inside my personal space, been through all my things and done this is starting to hit home.

Without a word, I hop between the piles of clothes and my other possessions that litter my bedroom floor until I get to the bathroom.

My eyes widen in shock.

I stupidly expected it to be as untouched as the living room.

“Noooo,” I cry, assessing the mess.

All of my hair products have been squirted all around the room. Hundreds and hundreds of dollars’ worth of purchases in my quest for curl perfection are seconds away from literally going down the drain.

“What’s wrong?” Kian asks, rushing in behind me.

When I glance back, his expression isn’t as devastated as it should be.

He doesn’t get it.

Not that I expected him to.

“My hair products,” I explain absently, desperately trying to keep my sobs in.

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