Page 155 of Loving the Liar

You are here because he tried to pin a murder on you.

You are here because he left you no other choice.

My thoughts keep going back to that August phone call.

I wouldn’t go back to you if you were my last option on earth.

He will forever make me eat those words. I will never digest them. He stored them, destroyed my life, used them against me. Because I rejected him when all I ever wanted was to be his unconditionally.

I follow him to the stairs, him carrying my bag and me carrying my regrets, and he leads me to a bedroom with an ensuite. It’s not a grand mansion like we have in Stoneview, but his Silver Falls house is big and beautiful. Especially for a couple.

“Shower, Sweets. I’ll make you some food. You need to eat and rest. I texted Duval, but he wants to see you tomorrow morning. We’ll go to the temple so you can tell them your final decision.”

“They weren’t going to kill me, were they? When they threatened to remove me from the Circle.”

“No,” he admits as he walks to the ensuite. I follow and watch him turn on the shower. “But they will now if they think you killed Megan. Her dad will unleash them on you.”

“And you’ll let them?”

“Of course not. I’ll try to save you.” Content with the water temperature, he takes my coat off me, then pulls the gray cashmere sweater I’m wearing over my head. “But contrary to what most believe, I’m not invincible.” There goes my white shirt. “I’ll try to save you, and I’ll probably die with you.”

He does always look invincible. It’s probably what reassures most people he cares for. I know it’s always reassured me. But the truth is, he’s not, and he’s willing to sacrifice both of us to get what he wants.

Steam swirls around us, fogging most of the bathroom. He undoes my jeans, pushing them down my legs, and I’m left topless with just my panties on.

“Let’s just hope you can behave, and we can avoid death.”

He rids me of my panties, and I stand naked in front of him. He appreciates the view; I see it even through the steam, but he doesn’t touch me.

He touches the water instead, hissing at the heat. “You love your showers way too hot,” he chuckles.

When I walk in, it’s perfect. Because he knows me and how I take my shower. It’s annoying, but the burn is delicious.

“I’ll be downstairs. Take your time.”

I do. I need time to get the forest off me, the images of Megan, the blood, the dirt.

I need a minute to accept that this is my situation now, and that the only other possible outcome will hurt even more. If Luke manages…the pain will last forever.

I’m wearing a robe he left on the bed when I step into the kitchen. It’s a satin blue robe, almost see-through but not quite. He’s washing up whatever he used to cook, and the oven is on.

“I made vegetarian lasagna,” he tells me quietly. “Grab a mug from that cabinet. I’ve got that strawberry soda you like.”

It’s such a strange atmosphere between us. I don’t want to listen to anything he says, but at the same time, I’m here, and I’m not sure which things I have a choice in anymore.

“A mug?” I say as I open the cabinet. “Don’t you have glasses?” My question is answered the second I look inside.

One shelf is empty, the other has mugs. I throw him a questioning look as I grab one.

“She had a thing for throwing glasses at me,” he mutters, avoiding my gaze as he opens the oven to check if the meal is cooked. “Don’t ask me why it was always glasses.”

Pulling the dish out of the oven, he serves me a slice of lasagna before putting the plate on the table between the knife and fork that were already there.

I don’t like the feeling I get when he tells me these things. I don’t want to feel bad for him, and I don’t want to relate to him about abuse. My dad used to make me feel lower than low. The mental pain was unbearable, and I don’t want to imagine what he went through with her every day.

I simply nod, holding back the need to take him into my arms, and I give him the mug. He fills it with my favorite strawberry soda. The silence is eating me alive, and I want to insult him, fight him, do something.

I don’t, but he does. He slides his fingers against my cheek, past my hairline, into my hair, and gently pulls me toward him to kiss my forehead.

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