Page 41 of Ruthless God

She mutters something under her breath, something I don’t quite catch, but I don’t press. I’m sure she’ll tell me soon enough exactly how she feels about me.

Wanting to keep her on her toes, I say, “You said you met Gabriel. What did he look like?”

She turns her head slightly, eyeing me with suspicion. “Well, since I thoughtyouwere Gabriel, I thought it’d be obvious what he looked like.”

Her tone is full of spunk, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s testing me just as much as I’m testing her. I ignore the bait.

“Did he have a scar?”

“Yes.”

I hum, thoughtful. “Gabriel didn’t have a scar.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “He does now.”

“He doesn’t.”

She exhales sharply, a hint of exasperation creeping in. “Why? Because you said he was dead?”

I pause. I don’t think I ever actually said those words out loud. But I nod anyway.

“Yes.”

She leans forward slightly, her gaze locked onto mine now, unwavering.

“Well,” she says, voice calm, almost too steady, “he’s not dead.”

The words settle between us like a slow-building storm.

I don’t react. Not outwardly. But something inside me tightens, sharp and immediate.

She’s lying.

Or she thinks she’s telling the truth.

Either option is dangerous for very different reasons.

If she’s lying, that means she’s playing a game, testing me, seeing how far she can push before I react. That would make her reckless. Stupid. And I don’t have time for either.

But if she believes what she’s saying?

That’s worse.

Because it means someone has fed her this lie so well, so convincingly, that she doesn’t even question it. And that makes her valuable to the wrong people. It means she’s tangled up in something deeper, something I might not have accounted for.

I study her, watching the way she holds herself, the way her fingers curl slightly against the leather armrest, the way she doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver.

She’s either an excellent liar or a pawn in a much bigger game.

And I need to find out which. Fast.

9

Cecely

Claudius watches me like I’m some kind of puzzle he’s trying to solve. His sharp, calculating gaze never strays far from me. I can practically feel him dissecting every breath I take.

Meanwhile, I’m just sitting here, sinking into the plush leather of his obscenely fancy jet, trying my absolute best not to barf all over the place. The turbulence isn’t even that bad, but my stomach doesn’t care. It twists and churns, flipping in ways that have nothing to do with the altitude and everything to do with the fact that my world is completely upside down.

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