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“Sleeping Beauty,” he murmurs. Then he adds dryly, “The unconscious princess. A bit more my speed than Cinderella.”
Maybe he hasn’t read the message beneath the picture. Maybe he hasn’t noticed the necklace.
I hold on to that hope with a death grip, but I don’t expect it’s the truth. Hannah does look stunning, so soft and beautiful, like a fairy-tale princess come to life, but Dare isn’t easily distracted. He probably read both messages before he even glimpsed the photo she sent with them.
I should delete the whole message chain right now to protect her. Dare knows my passcode. He could easily get into my phone when I’m not awake and steal the photo, just like Anae did to him withmyphoto last year. I don’t know if he would, but hecoulduse it to hurt her.
But I’ve never deleted my message chain with Hannah. I have every message we’ve ever exchanged, and I can’t bring myself to throw them all away because then I can’t read them anymore.
Tears sting behind my eyes, and I don’t even know why. I feel absurd, but I also feel like I’ve betrayed her by letting him see this photo—even though I couldn’t help it. It’s not like I would have ever shown it to him on purpose. That picture was just for me.
But he’s looking at it. Not only that, but reading her request that I not show it to him.
I feel sick.
Maybe I can change my passcode. It might aggravate him if he tries to get into it and can’t, but he probably won’t say anything because that would mean admitting that he tried to access my phone behind my back.
“Can I have my phone back, please?” I ask softly.
Dare’s gaze flickers to me. I half expect him not to, but he hands it over like it’s no problem at all. “Of course.”
I don’t feel much relief.
I look down at the picture of her for a fraction of a second, then I squeeze the side of my phone to darken the screen so at least if he didn’t see the bottom message, he won’t see it now.
“She looks pretty tonight, doesn’t she?”
It feels like bait, so I keep my nod as casual as possible. “Sure. Hannah always looks pretty.”
“That’s true,” he murmurs.
My hackles rise at the deliberate way he says it, but I know he’sfucking with me on purpose, so I try to stay on my guard and not give him the reaction he’s looking for.
I swallow. Dare watches me closely.
“You should probably delete that message,” he finally says.
My stomach plummets, and my gaze darts to his. I’m too consumed by immediate dread to properly school my expression. “What? Why?”
He glances at the phone. “She didn’t want anyone else to see it.”
My heart thuds pitifully, like it’s just been kicked hard and isn’t sure how much longer it can continue to beat. I try to swallow again, but my mouth is bone-dry.
“Why, in the wrong hands, that picture could be dangerous,” he continues, meeting my gaze and holding it, a glint of malice in his.
Please don’t make me delete the message.
I stop short of uttering those awful words.
I know his threats when I hear them now. I’m not new to him, making excuses and thinking I’m reading too much into the words and his tone must mean something else.
He’s threatening me.
If I don’t delete the message, he’ll make me wish I had.
I tell myself just to do it. They’re only lines of text on a digital screen. There’s no reason to be sentimental about them.
But Iamsentimental about them.
