Page 68 of Crown of Lies

I smirk as Nico and his man leave the room. The door slams shut behind them, and I head to the shower, eager to wash away the remnants of last night’s activities.

The hot water cascades over my body, soothing my aching muscles. As I lather up, my mind wanders. These men, the Princes of Carnage, they’re a puzzle I can’t quite figure out. One minute they’re treating me like property, the next they’re bringing in reinforcements to protect me.

I think about the lies we’ve all been living. The fake marriage to Nico, the secrets we’re all keeping. It’s a house of cards, ready to topple at any moment. And then there’s The Saint, pulling strings from the shadows.

As I rinse off, I make a silent vow to myself. I’ll play along for now, but I’m going to find a way to turn the tables on that mysterious son of a bitch. He thinks he knows me, thinks he has the upper hand. But he has no idea what I’m capable of.

None of them do.

Dressed in fresh clothes, I head downstairs in search of Nico. I find him in the living room, pacing back and forth with his phone pressed to his ear.

“Yeah, it’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do for now,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “How soon can we move in?”

I lean against the doorframe, watching and listening. Nico notices me but doesn’t stop his conversation.

“Okay, we’ll be there tomorrow to check it out. Thanks for setting this up, man. We owe you one.”

I watch him end the call and slip his phone into his pocket. His shoulders slump, and he rubs his face with both hands. For the first time, I really see the toll this situation is taking on him. The dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he carries himself like he has the weight of the world on his back.

A pang of guilt hits me. I’m the cause for a lot of that stress and tension. Things would probably be a hell of a lot easier for him—for them, for all of us—if I hadn’t burned their clubhouse down in a fit of calculated rage.

That guilt doesn’t excuse what they were doing, of course. They never should’ve been spying on me in the first place, and definitely not for as long as they did.

For the first time, I realize I’ve never asked why they were supposedly going to stop.

“Nico,” I say softly, stepping into the room. He looks up, his eyes tired but alert. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, gesturing for me to continue. There was a time when I would’ve needed to steel myself for his reply. Now it’s just another fact, just another thing I need to know.

“I need to know… why were you guys going to stop spying on me for The Saint?”

The question hangs in the air between us. Nico’s gaze meets mine, and I see a flicker of something—surprise, then something else—cross his face. For a moment, I think he might actually give me a straight answer.

But then his expression shifts again, and he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Itdoesmatter,” I insist, stepping closer to him. My heart is racing, but I’m not sure if it’s from anger or hope. Maybe a little of both. “I need to know why,” I say again, just to drive the point home. “Why were you going to stop spying on me?”

I search his face, looking for any sign of the connection I thought we had. Was any of it real? The moments we shared, thelaughter, the heat, the stolen glances—were they just part of the act? Or was there something more, something that made them want to do the right thing in the end?

His jaw clenches and his eyes dart away from mine. “It’s fucking complicated, okay? So just drop it. Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“And likeIsaid, itdoesmatter. So uncomplicate it.” My frustration is boiling over, but I can’t help it. I need to know. “Just tell me the goddamn truth for once.”

He runs a hand through his hair and looks up at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity. Finally, he meets my gaze again.

“I didn’t like lying to you,” he admits quietly. “It didn’t feel right.”

My breath catches in my throat. His words send a jolt through me, making my heart thump so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. I take another step closer, searching his face for more.

“Why?” I ask, letting the frustration fade away until I’m barely even whispering. “Why didn’t it feel right?”

I’m practically begging him to say it, to confirm that there was something real between us. That all those moments weren’t just fabricated for some twisted game.

The air between us feels charged, heavy with unspoken words and emotions. My heart races, anticipating his response. I want him to say it, to confirm that what we had—or have—is real.

But the moment stretches on, and I watch as the walls come back up.

His expression hardens, and he takes a step back.

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