Page 165 of Ruthless God

“Perhaps about things you saw?”

Her eyes narrow. “You’ll answer them?”

“I’m an open book.”

She huffs out a bitter laugh. “Well, since you’ve been lying to me this entire time, I find that hard to believe.”

My smirk falters. “I wasn’t lying.”

“Weren’t you?”

I shake my head, slowly, deliberately. “No.”

She throws her hands in the air, exasperated.

“Then how do you explain that night at Purple Panther Hideaway? The woods? The night you climbed into bed while I was sleeping?” Her voice rises, frustration bleeding through. “Claudius, stop lying! I’m not stupid!”

“No, you’re not.” I tilt my head, voice calm. Measured. “You’re just wrong.”

Her breathing stutters.

“Wrong?” She huffs. “Tell me how I’m wrong.”

I exhale, letting the words settle in my mouth before I say them.

“It wasn’t me.”

Her brows furrow.

“What?”

I hold her gaze, steady. “On those nights. It wasn’t me.” A slow, measured breath. “It was Gabriel.”

She jumps to her feet, eyes flashing.

“Jesus, Claudius! Don’t do this! Don’t lie to my face.”

I let out a slow, bitter chuckle. “Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

She freezes. The shift is instant. Like someone just yanked the ground out from under her. Her body locks up. Her breath is shallow.

And then, she asks in barely a whisper, “What?”

I exhale, running my hand over my beard. “I have Dissociative Identity Disorder.”

The words feel heavy, final. Like a weight I’ve been carrying for far too long. Her lips part, but no words come out.

I don’t give her the chance to recover.

“It means…” I swallow hard. “After Gabriel died, I could hear him. Everywhere I went. It was like he was fucking haunting me.”

I shake my head, like I can shake off the memories, the voices, the weight of it all.

“One day, I got something in the mail.”

She blinks, silent, waiting.

“A letter for Gabriel. Forwarded to me after his death. A letter about an auction.”

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