Page 32 of Stolen Rebel

“Why were you blocking the door with your body?” Suspicion drips from his voice and his unfairly gorgeous features as he takes me in head to toe.

I heave out an overly dramatic sigh. “Can’t a girl want some privacy after a week of having her dignity taken from her?”

“Five days actually.”

“Five days, my mistake. Is that all? It feels like a lifetime.” I snap my mouth shut in case more of Rowan slips out from between my lips.

Something unreadable flickers across his face. It’s gone before I can name it, but it was so far from warm and fuzzy, I double down, looking at his shoes and dropping my voice. “It’s where I go to think. And cry.”

“Is that why you’re costing me a fortune in running water?” He gestures at the tap. His tone might be light, but his eyes aren’t.

I roll my eyes, crossing my arms tightly across my body. “You don’t pay for water usage here.”

“Is that why you cost me a fortune in new clothes instead?” He tips his head to the side.

Ah… he’s figured out that Sorcha took his credit card. He doesn’t look mad about it, though, and that in itself is a concern. What’s his play here?

“Did I spend too much?” Please say I left you bankrupt. We both know I didn’t, but I’d love to have at least made a dent with this overpriced new wardrobe of mine.

“On the credit card Sorcha stole from me?” He snorts. “No. Not even close.” He runs his gaze over me. It’s not what I’d have picked out for you.” His assessing gaze lingers for a beat too long. He hates what I’m wearing. Good. It takes everything in me not to laugh in his face.

I do smile at him, though. “I disagree. I love the colors.” I’m talking out my hole. These clothes are nothing like the ones I’d pick out. They’re softer fabrics, muted undertones, practical cuts, and nothing overtly sexual. They hide everything he remembers wanting, which feels far more dangerous than showing skin.

I did pick up a few items that I might have to pull out when I’m around his brothers, given that Darragh’s attention on me drove Liam to damn near break his face. That’s something I can use in my favor.

He gives a non-committal grunt, like it might pain him to agree with this bland outfit being colorful. But why he’s holding back his opinion is anyone’s guess.

Oh, wait. Is this his next tactic? Be nice to me to get me to talk? You’ve got to be kidding. Does he think I came up the Liffey in a bubble?

But this might work in my favor. I could get a little more freedom around here, more open-door time, oooooh a couple puzzles or a book of crosswords, some Blu-rays or a fucking gaming console wouldn’t kill him. I’m going out of my mind with boredom.

He leads the way back into my room, the folded letter on the bedside table draws my attention. Okay, fine, if he wants a fragile peace between us, I can do that. But first, I need to at least set the record straight on that damn letter.

“Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

He shakes his head. “It’s dinnertime.”

“And you didn’t send a minion to get me?”

He opens his mouth to say something but thinks twice and snaps his mouth shut, offering me a headshake instead.

I steady my breathing. This could go really fucking badly, but I pick up the letter and hold it out to him. He flinches away from it, curling his lip like it makes him physically sick to look at.

“I don’t need this anymore. You can have it back.”

He looks from the paper to my face and back to the letter. When he doesn’t take it from me, I press it against his chest. And I don’t for one minute miss the firmness my hand meets as I do.

“I know you think I’m a monster. Or that I did you wrong with this.” I push the paper against him. “But I can assure you, regardless of who you think I am. I didn’t write that.” I implore him with my eyes, willing him to see that no matter what he thinks I’ve done, no matter the list of crimes he has against me, this isn’t one of them.

Something shifts behind his eyes as he searches mine for deceit. He’s calculating, running over the possibilities so I repeat myself for emphasis. “I didn’t write this, Liam.” It might be the first time I’ve used his name directly, because it felt too intimate, but here and now I need him to hear me, to know that no matter what happened all those years ago, I never played him.

Someone played us both.

The silence that stretches between us is heavy, constricting, even tighter than the Erin corset wrapped around my ribs.

“What about the phone call?”

I frown. “What phone call?”