Page 63 of Her Name in Red
“This?” she repeats, gesturing vaguely between us with her fork. “Eating Thai food in my kitchen while we're half-naked?”
“All of it,” I say, not backing down. “Waking up next to you. Showering in your bathroom. Ordering food you actually eat instead of whatever expired shit's in your fridge. Watching you when your guard is down.”
I can see it happening in real time—the way her body tenses, her shoulders drawing up tight like a bowstring about to snap. Her grip on the fork tightens until her knuckles go white, the metal pressing hard against her palm.
“You're causing me to break out in hives,” she says, voice flat but with an undercurrent of something that might be panic. “You're making me itchy as fuck, Rhodes.”
She scratches absently at her collarbone, as if to prove her point. The movement draws my attention to the delicate hollow of her throat, the slight flush creeping up her neck.
She's like a feral cat, I realize. Feed her, and she might stick around. Push too hard for affection, and she'll claw your eyes out before disappearing for days.
I back up a step, giving her space to breathe. My hands come up in surrender, a gesture that says I'm not a threat.
“Alright, alright. No need to get your knife,” I say, injecting just enough sarcasm to lighten the moment. “Just eat your food before it gets cold.”
She’s quiet for too long after that. I fucked up. Pushed too hard, too fast. I can see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the mechanical way she's eating now—no more little hums of pleasure, just fuel going into the machine.
She finishes eating and slides off the stool and moves away from me.
Leaning back against the counter, I drag a hand down my face. I know what comes next. I've been studying her patterns like a goddamn wildlife researcher. When Maren feels cornered, when someone gets too close, she doesn't just retreat—she hunts. Goes looking for some poor bastard who won't see her coming until it's too late.
It’s her way of taking back control, and I need to make sure I have her back.
Good fucking job, Riggs, you fucking idiot.
Chapter 22
Maren
Ilet him in. I let him ruin me.
The words hang in the air of my apartment like smoke, choking me. I can still smell him on my skin. That fucking cologne he wears. Hockey player cologne. The kind that shouldn't make my stomach flip, but does.
I slam my palm against the headboard, welcoming the sting. Better than whatever the hell that was with Riggs. That wasn't just fucking. That was…something else.
I pull my knees to my chest.
His face flashes behind my eyelids—that cocky smile cracking when I'd kicked him out. Like I'd actually hurt him. Like he has feelings that can be hurt.
I drag myself to the bathroom, avoiding the mirror. I don't want to see what he saw. Don't want to catch whatever expression was on my face when he was inside me, when I forgot for those few seconds that I hate him. That I'm supposed to hate him.
The shower runs hot enough to scald, but I barely feel it.
“Maybe we could do this again,” he'd said afterward, voice casual but eyes anything but. “Like, regularly.”
Like we're dating. Like we're normal. Like I'm not broken, and he's not obsessed.
Or that I’m not obsessed with him.
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. I let him see something in me tonight. Something real. Something I've kept buried for years since everything went to shit.
Water streams down my face, and I tell myself it's just from the shower.
I should've known better. Riggs doesn't just watch. He consumes. And now he thinks he has permission.
Shutting off the water I catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. Haunted eyes. Swollen lips. I look like someone who just got fucked.
But that's not what scares me.
