Page 33 of Stolen Rebel

“The one where you told me you were hurt. Begged me to come and get you. When I did, I got met with a gang of thugs instead.”

His declaration almost knocks me off my feet. “I never called you.”

It’s a regret I’ve had many times. If I hadn’t bumped into Brian and let him take over, Liam would’ve been the first person I called. But as soon as the witness protection program swallowed me whole, the idea of calling him became impossible. That program insists you leave everyone and everything behind. Forever.

He snorts. “I might be able to buy a typed letter as fake, but I know your voice, Rowan. It was you.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“Still keeping up with the lies.” With a grunt, he shoves the paper in his pocket and leaves my room, the open door behind him the only invitation I get to follow.

The more he shares, the more confused I am. A letter I didn’t write and now a phone call I didn’t make, yet whoever it was sounded enough like me to convince Liam. None of this makes any sense, and until I can get him to believe me, I’m on my own trying to figure it out.

The dining room is set for two, which sets alarm bells off in my head. It’s too close for comfort, too private, too… us. “No one else here for dinner?” The hope in my voice crumples when he shakes his head and pulls my chair out on his way to his own. His hand brushes my back as I sit like a reminder I’m exactly where he wants me to be.

“Just us tonight, Erin.”

Great craic. Can’t wait to sit and stare into his mesmerizing as fuck eyeballs and lie to his face all evening. And what’s with him calling me Erin? Another card he’s playing from a deck stacked in his favor?

I keep expecting him to bring up the letter or the phone call, but he doesn’t and, if I do, I risk alienating him further. Better to let him sit with it and, hopefully, he’ll come around to the truth.

We eat in silence, dinner feeling like a test I didn’t study for, one I don’t know the rules to or what I’m being judged on. The perfectly polished cutlery is heavier than I expect. My grip shifts—just slightly—and the fork slips from my fingers, clattering against the plate.

I still, not looking at him, my heart racing from the unexpected clang.

“Nervous?” His voice is too quiet.

I try to steady my breathing, reaching for the fork like it’s nothing. “Clumsy.”

“You weren’t before.” He doesn’t touch his food, just watches me as I reset after my mistake.

“What bar did you say you worked at?” The question lands casually, but it’s a measured, carefully placed question. Another test.

I open my mouth and pause. Just for a second but it’s long enough.

His gaze sharpens.

“The—” I force a small laugh. “God, my brain’s fried. King’s Arms”

Silence stretches across the table.

“You hesitated.”

I shrug, reaching for my glass. “I’m tired.”

“You’ve never had a memory problem before.”

I force another laugh like he’s bang out of order for even bringing it up. “You kept me tied to a chair in a warehouse for two days and then swapped that prison for this one. Forgive me if my memory’s not sparkling.”

Another beat of assessing silence hangs heavily between us.

“Right.” But he doesn’t look convinced. His thumb slides the length of his knife. “We’ll come back to that.”

Despite twenty questions, it’s oddly domestic with Titan at our feet and a meal between us on the table, but the air is tense, like he’s waiting for me to trip myself up with my lies or contradict myself. Or break.

Throughout the entire meal, he barely moves, he just watches me like a hawk, keeping this dance we’re doing tight and personal without giving anything up—or winning anything either. But he’s got an air of smugness about him, like if I fuck up, he already knows what comes next. And he’s not only waiting for it, he’s excited by it.

As I make my way upstairs, he follows, and when we get to my bedroom door, he opens it for me. “No more deadbolt. For now. Don’t make me regret it.”