Page 56 of Web of Lies
"God, I should hate you," I choke out, my voice cracking under the weight of the truth.
"Hate me all you want," he says in a soft, irritating voice. "Scream at me. Hit me. I don't care. I'll take it. I can love us both, even if you hate me."
His calm demeanor only makes things worse, fueling the fury burning in my chest. With both hands flat against his chest, I push him, but he barely moves. He takes a small step back, as if he's letting me have my way.
"Let it out," he says.
"I fucking hate you." The words rip from my chest like a wound torn open. I shove him again, harder this time.
"Yes, that's good." His words mess with my head. They twist anger with confusion. How dare he? How dare he twist this into something encouraging? I pound my fists against his chest again and again, each impact dull against his muscles.
"You're an asshole." I raise my voice and pull back to strike again, but his fingers catch my wrists. His grip is firm yet not forceful as he pulls me into his embrace. "Let me go." I squirm in his grip. My chest heaves against his, my breathing jagged and frantic. Then, his scent fills my nose: the same damn scent of lemon, pepper, and cedar wood mixed with the faintest trace of tobacco. It was a smell I could turn to when everything else was falling apart. It meant that I wasn't alone. It meant I was safe. It meant him. But now, it's a cruel haunting memory of something I want to run from and crawl into at the same time.
Avoiding his gaze, I dip my head forward and hide my face in his shoulder, sliding my arms around his chest. He releases my wrists, pulls me in close, and wraps his arms around me.
"I never meant to hurt you," he says. "It may be hard to understand, but I was trying to protect you. I didn't plan any of this." His fingers thread through my hair. "I want to help you, Riley," he whispers, burying his face in my hair. "I want you to be safe. I want you with me."
Safe. The words hit me like a punch in the face. What does "safe" even mean anymore? Am I safe with him? Or safe from him? My thoughts crash into each other, fighting for my attention. The hypocrisy burns in my chest, knocking the air out of my lungs. I'm far from innocent myself. I've lied, pretended, and kept secrets from him, all while expecting him to be honest with me.
"I want to be alone," I whisper. My voice is barely audible, each word scraping against the ache in my throat.
"I can't let you leave." Kyle's voice is low. "They'll look for you all over the city."
There's no point in arguing because he's right. The moment I step outside, someone else will come after me. I simply don't have the strength to fight anymore. Today's events have drained me of all my energy, and I can't do this anymore. My head throbs, my muscles ache, and my soul feels bruised. I need silence. I need space.
"I know," I say after a long pause, my voice cracking. "I know I'm in trouble. I just... I'm tired, Kyle."
At first, he doesn't argue. When I finally force myself to look up, I catch the flicker of guilt in his deep brown eyes.
"I'll give you space," he finally says. "You can have my room or the guest room. Whatever you want."
I pull back from him, putting that small but necessary distance between us. "I'll take the guest room."
"Okay."
Without another word, I turn toward the hallway. Each step I take feels heavier than the last. When I reach the door to the guest room, I pause, my hand trembling as I grip the doorknob. I push it open, step inside, quietly close it behind me, and twist the lock.
The moment the deadbolt clicks, I lose my balance, collapse onto the bed, and bury my face in the pillow. A muffled scream tears from my throat, a burst of raw, jagged pain echoing through my body.
Chapter 26
Riley
Hot water rains down on me, washing away the grime clinging to my skin and the chaos clouding my thoughts. The heat melts the tension from my muscles, and I lean back against the cool tiled wall. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them like a shield. Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four endless hours have passed since Kyle brought me home, and I've locked myself in this room with nothing but my thoughts.
Kyle is the butcher, and I'm a rat sent to find him.
A groan vibrates in my throat as I comb my fingers through my wet hair. Gripping the strands and pulling until my scalp stings. Everything I thought I knew has become a blurry mess, and not a single puzzle piece is in the right place. I was supposed to be the odd one: the liar and the traitor. I thought Kyle would be my chaotic constant in the mess I made—the one person not tied to it all that I could lean on. He was never supposed to get dragged into this, yet he was in from the beginning.
Eventually, I rise to my feet and climb out of the shower, wrapping a towel around myself and tying my hair up. My gaze drifts to my toiletry bag on the counter. Among the usual careproducts is a small bag of pills. . My way of keeping my mind sharp when everything else feels like it's falling apart.
With shaky hands, I reach for it, pop one into my mouth, and turn on the faucet. I cup water into my hands and swallow, my throat burning slightly as the pill slides down. My hands land flat on the counter, and I close my eyes, waiting for the familiar warmth to spread. Within minutes, a flush creeps across my skin. My muscles relax, my heartbeat lifts in a gentle rhythm, and the edges of my anxiety blur. My thoughts sharpen even as tension drains away, leaving me simultaneously calm and alert as a faint euphoria nudges the fear and doubt into the background.
I open my eyes and meet my reflection, staring back at me like a stranger I hardly recognize. My pale skin looks almost translucent, veins tracing faint blue paths beneath the surface. The freckles I usually notice so easily are muted, dull in the harsh bathroom light.
I can't stay locked in Kyle's guestroom forever. Yes, I'm safe—for now—but that safety is temporary. My chest tightens at the thought. I refuse to be a prisoner to my own thoughts and the man I thought I could trust, the one who has been both my protector and my tormentor. I need answers to understand the chaos that has our lives tangled up.
I turn away from the mirror, go back to the guest room, and put on a clean thong and a loose, worn shirt. Then, I let my damp hair fall free over my shoulders; the strands clinging to my skin. I pause for a moment, glancing once more at my reflection in the mirror on the wall. My hair is already soaking through the fabric of the shirt, which clings to my shoulders. I snatch the towel from the bed again and tap at my hair as I approach the door.
