Page 19 of Stolen Rebel

“You forgot these.” I hold out the pile of clothes. There’s a test buried in the middle. Let’s see if she passes or fails.

For a heartbeat, time simply… stops. As she reaches out, her fingers brush against the back of my hand. It’s a fleeting touch, completely accidental, but my skin hums where she made contact, a siren call I’m too weak to ignore. The pulse jumps in the hollow of her throat, timed perfectly to the thud of my own heart. It’s the ghost of a memory, a rhythmic call and response that proves, despite the lies, the betrayal, our bodies still speak the same language.

“Oh. Thank you.” She takes them from me and beelines for the stairs. I push back my chair and follow. She’s halfway up when my boot lands on the bottom step.

She glances over her shoulder. “Wh-what are you doing?”

Ignoring her question, I gesture for her to continue walking.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re coming to lock me in.” Her eyes narrow as she speaks before she remembers her coy little pretense and smooths her expression.

Another crack in the wall.

I don’t confirm or deny her assumption. She enters the stark bedroom with its bland walls and bars on the plastic window. Sorcha at her most unhinged. No wonder she’s fit into this family as though she always belonged here. Rowan, though, is a different prospect. Maybe that’s one of many reasons I never introduced her to my family. She was too good, too pure to get caught up in mafia dynamics.

And here’s me, locking her up in the heart of the monster’s den.

Rowan carefully places the pile of clothes on the bed. I prop my shoulder against the doorframe, waiting for her to realize I’m still here. It takes a couple of seconds for her to turn around and see me there.

“You can go now.”

I smirk. “Giving me orders? That’s not how this works, Rebel.”

A muscle flickers in her cheek. Excellent. Another sign that my Rebel is bubbling to the surface.

Fuck. I’ve got to stop thinking of her as mine unless it’s “mine to punish as I see fit.” The sooner I change my inner monologue, the fucking better.

She tried to have me killed, then disappeared for five years. There are no fucking free passes from that, only retribution. Payback. Pain.

“Are you going to stand there and watch me get changed?”

I push upright and fold my arms. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Her mouth opens, then shuts. Whatever she was about to say, she thought better of it. “Could you at least turn your back. Please?” The last word sounds like a snarl, but her eyes beseech me to comply.

“I will, once you’ve chosen what you’re wearing.”

“Why does that matter?” She looks at the pile of clothes like something might jump out and bite her. Unfortunately for her, it’s nothing quite that simple.

“Humor me.”

She hitches one shoulder in a physical reaction that is so like Rebel, my breath catches in my throat. I’d given up on ever seeing this woman again. The last three days have been a head fuck, that’s for sure.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, though…

It’s been a long time since anyone’s fooled me, and I don’t intend to let Rebel-Rowan-Erin take a repeat shot.

She begins sorting through the clothes, placing them in little piles. T-shirts in one pile, jeans and trousers in another, a couple of packs of underwear—sealed, of course.

A little gasp escapes her.

I smirk. Gotcha.

She runs her fingers over the burgundy silk dress, lost in a memory that’s her undoing. The last time we fucked, she was wearing that dress. After I got out of the hospital, I went to her flat. Stupid, really, but back then I was fucking stupid. Must have been or I wouldn’t have been taken in by her lies. The place was untouched. When she left, she didn’t take a single personal item with her. Something made me take the dress, and I kept it at the back of my wardrobe all these years.

Her landlord gave the rest of her stuff to charity.

“Find something familiar?”