Page 55 of Web of Lies
"I had some help. Riley, everything is okay. You're safe here," he says.
"Am I?" I ask as I slide into one of the chairs, prop my elbows on the table, and bury my face in my palms. "I'm in the same room as the Butcher. I'm not safe at all." A sigh slips from his lips as he walks over to the open kitchen, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and sets it down in front of me.
"Riley, how long have we been seeing each other?"
"Eight months."
"In those eight months," he says, his voice dropping, "have I ever made you feel like I wanted to hurt you?"
I stay quiet, thinking back over the past year with Kyle. Even when he tied me up and tattooed his name on me, I never felt like I was in real danger. I always had the option to say our safe word, and he would've stopped. He proved today that the wordcarries weight. Even caught in a fit of rage, ready to kill Chloé, he let go the moment I said it. But still, our safe word doesn't stop the truth.
"That doesn't change the fact that you're the Butcher."
"And you're a rat."
"That's different."
"Is it?" He raises an eyebrow. "We're both liars, Riley. The only difference is that we're on opposite sides. Depending on who you ask, either one of us could be the villain." I narrow my eyes at him, pressing my lips into a thin line. "Neither of us looks good in this scenario," Kyle continues. "You're a traitor, Riley. If this comes out, you're in way more trouble than I am right now. I've got the contacts to disappear. You? You've got your old employer and Hunt ready to track you down."
He cuts straight to the point with no sugarcoating or pretending, and I hate that he isn't completely wrong. He sees the truth for what it is, even when it's ugly. I should hate him for that. For being the Butcher. For calling me out. He's so damn calm while everything in me feels like it's falling apart.
"You're not just killing people for your job," I snap. "You slaughter them like cattle."
"Yes," he says through clenched teeth, narrowing his eyes. "But I have my reasons."
"Reasons?" I let out a mocking scoff. "I'm dying to hear what kind of reason could justify butchering people like that?"
His eyes remain fixed on me, and for the first time, I notice a hint of hesitation beneath his confident exterior before he lets out a sigh. "My mom is a cannibal."
"What?" My voice cracks as the word tumbles off my tongue. Bile crawls up my throat as my stomach twists, and I stare at him. He can't mean her. The woman he talks fondly of is supposed to be a cannibal? "You are all monsters," I say, my face twisting with confusion.
"If that's what you want to believe."
I rise to my feet, throw the chair back, and storm toward him. My fists slam into his chest, and he takes the punch. "You fooled me." I hit him again. "You made a joke out of me." Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over. "You—" My voice catches in my throat. The memory of the restaurant crashes back into my mind like a wave. My chest heaves, my lungs constricting as panic floods my senses. "It was you at the restaurant?" I ask in a barely audible whisper.
"Yes."
I take a step back, putting distance between us. My chest tightens, torn between the image of the man who made me laugh, who made me feel safe, and the one who forced himself on me. "This was all just a game to you, wasn't it? Sleeping with me… acting like you cared. Then, when you found out I was looking for the Butcher, you thought it would be hilarious to mess with me?"
"No." His voice remains calm, and he takes a step toward me.
"Don't lie." I snap, tears rolling down my cheeks. I raise my hand to wipe it away as if that could hide how much this is breaking me.
"I'm not lying, Riley."
"You do. You're just like me; you're nothing more than a liar."
"Riley." He raises his voice—sharp and loud—and I flinch, taking another step back. He stops right where he is, though, lifting both hands as if he's surrendering. "Listen," he says, his voice calmer now. "Yes, I'm the Butcher. Yes, I sell the meat and organs of my targets." Each word hits me like a punch in the gut. "But you're not my target." His voice softens even more. "You're the woman I love."
My eyes widen, and the world blurs at the edges until all I see is him right in front of me. My heart stutters at the sound of his confession—the words I've wanted to hear all this time—directedat me. For months, I told myself not to get attached. Told myself not to let the nights we spent together get under my skin. I kept repeating it like a mantra: It's just fun. Just a distraction. But it didn't work because I fell in love with him. And now, here we are: he loves me back. But the man I fell for is the same man I was supposed to track.
"No," I whisper, shaking my head. "No." The room suddenly feels smaller and darker, as if the walls are closing in on me. My body screams at me to move—to run or fight—but my heart won't let me.
"I do," he says again, taking a step closer. "Riley, I love you."
"This is a joke." Tears stream down my cheeks. "You love me?" The words burn on my tongue like acid. "You don't get to say that." My hands land flat on his chest, but he doesn't budge when I shove him. "You lied to me. You manipulated me for weeks. You used me. You played me. You assaulted me. You tattooed me, Kyle."
He doesn't argue. Instead, he just stands there and lets me hit him over and over again. Eventually, my hands curl into trembling fists, clutching his shirt as if I'm trying to either hold on to him or rip him apart.
