Page 123 of Cruel Lies

I found him in the commons, his back to me, hair a shaggy mess, with a knife in his hands. He had it held up by his face, and for a split second, I thought he might be trying to kill himself.

So of course I bum rushed him in a panic, knocking the knife out of his hands as we tumbled to the floor, my pain renewed with a fervor.

"Fuck, what did you have to go and do that for, ya—Harper?"

He blinked up at me as I straddled his waist, staring at the handiwork he’d been working on with the blade.

"Nash, what thefuck?"

His lips were spread in a grimace, but that permanent smile was fresh, blood caking around the scabbing wound where he’d reopened it, apparently. It looked like it was in various states of healing, which confused me even more.

Little by little, it seemed to dawn on him that I was here, and not one of his brothers. Slowly, his hands rose from the floor, gripping me by the biceps as I took it all in.

The fresh blood. The look of resignation in his eyes. The blade. The wound, which still had a few stitches left in it, that he’d apparently been working on taking out when he was interrupted.

He’d done this to himself.

Why?

"Nash," I breathed, my tears falling like rain now. I was so overwhelmed just seeing him again that it all hit me like a freight train and left me reeling, off the tracks, and very unstable.

He growled, shoving me off him—gently, though—as he rosefrom the floor in search of the blade. "You should go back to Angel. I’m not in the mood to deal with you."

I reached for the blade and managed to snag it a second before he did. And if I thought my shock couldn’t increase, seeing my nickname etched into a solid black blade in the same handwriting I used to have in high school, well, that’d definitely do it.

"How long have you had this?" I asked, knowing damn well their father threw all my belongings out as soon as he had me ‘killed.’ When Nash didn’t answer, the rage built inside me, hating that something as inconsequential as a knife could set me off like this.

I stood, wincing the whole way, free hand on my side as the stitches pulled against my skin. I sucked in a breath as Nash inched closer, reaching for the blade as I jerked it just out of his reach.

"Gimme the knife, Harper," he growled, the monotone, emotionless voice only serving to piss me off more.

"Take it from me if you’re brave enough," I replied crassly, dangling the blade out of his reach.

"I’m not in the mood to play games, Harper," he droned, wariness tinting the words that fell from his lips.

Harper, Harper, Harper. Where did the playful Harpie Girl go? Where did the old Nash hide himself? Why did he have to be so damn much like Angel, burying emotions under this stupid fucking mask?

The mask of a killer. A skull carefully drawn onto his visage to hide the ugliness he perceived himself to be wholly comprised of.

"Good thing I’m not, either." With the words finally out in the air, I grabbed him by the collar and jammed my tongue down his throat, forcing him to take me in his arms or let us both fall over in my intensity.

I didn’t want to wait for him to decide he was done with hislittle pity party. I didn’t care about the answers to questions I didn’t even care to ask yet.

I wanted him to stop hating himself. Wanted him to realize he wasn’t a lost cause. I wanted to let him know he could let people in, and they wouldn’t hurt him.

And I wanted him to know he wasn’t as slick as he thought he was.

His hands cradled my body against his, and it was like watching him awaken from a deep dream. First, those hands spanned across my ass and lower back, tugging me closer, gently guiding me. Then, his lips moved against mine, his tongue tangling with mine in a desperate, needy, staccato rhythm that mimicked what I imagined sex with Nash would be like.

Fast. Rough. Erratic. Desperate.

Perfect.

I didn’t blink when Angel came striding angrily into the commons yelling at us for being so stupid, yelling at me for not listening. Nash lifted a hand and flipped him off as he walked me backward to his room, kicking the door closed with abangbefore he locked it behind him.

This was it. This was the moment we would finally open up to each other, and something would connect. We could click like we’d been made to, and I could have the man back who’d strummed his guitar like a pro in high school, his long fingers drawing notes from the taut strings like I imagined they drew moans from the women he touched.

And just like that, the burning spike of jealousy turned me on my head, and I was now reeling with Nash, running through emotions like a flip book, no time to process the first one before another came along and shoved its way in.

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