I don’t answer, unsure of what he wants me to even say.
Why wouldn’t I hide from him?
From everyone?
It’s the only thing I know how to do.
“Show me.”
My eyebrows furrow at his command, and I shake my head.
His hand pauses, and I feel his fingers curl around my neck, their grip harsh. “It wasn’t a fucking request.”
I press the wipe harder against my face. “And my scars are none of your business.”
“Wrong.” He squeezes, gray eyes blazing. “Everything about you is my business, Riley. You no longer have an advantage in the information department.”
All traces of the confident, charismatic rock star I met years ago are gone, and in his place stands this… monster. An unrecognizable villain driven by the need to make me pay for something I didn’t even do.
You didn’t exactly make things better, though.
A lie of omission is still a lie, it’s just dressed better.
“If you know so much, how come you seem so shocked by the scars?”
“Nothing in your medical history points to wounds that would leave such permanent evidence.” Bending down, he moves so our faces are side by side in the mirror, and I can smell the slightest hint of whiskey on his breath.
My stomach rolls, fear seizing me like a volcano preparing to erupt.
“You looked at my medical history?”
The envelope that prompted my move flashes to mind, and I can’t help wondering if he had something to do with it, after all.
“Don’t sound so offended. It’s not like you didn’t violate my trust.”
“What you did was illegal.”
His brows rise. “As is lying about a crime. But don’t worry, my little snake. I didn’t find anything interesting.”
I clench my jaw as he leans in and try to pretend I don’t hear him inhale at my temple.
“Well, there was one thing,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my hair as he speaks. “Something about vaginal scarring? Tell me, Riley, did someone hurt you, and you thought it’d be easier to blame me?”
Violent nausea curdles in my gut, a fiery ball of disgust spinning inside me until it’s about to burst. Shame slithers down my limbs, terror mixing with hot humiliation, and I press the makeup wipe into my cheek until my teeth threaten to pierce the skin.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I grit out.
“Well, here I am, asking you to clarify.” Pausing, he stands up straight again, releasing me with a shove; I brace my free hand against the white plastic of the vanity, catching myself before my chest can collide with it.
“I’m confused about what makes you think you’re entitled to that part of me,” I snap, growing agitated. “If you’re going to torment me, then fucking do it. But don’t try to get to know me better. I’m not telling you my secrets.”
Walking backward, he stops once the backs of his knees hit the bed, cocking his head to one side. He studies me, silent as a mouse, for so long that I force myself to look away, glancing down at the tabletop for my foundation.
If he’s going to stick around, I need to put it back on.
I don’t know why it matters, but it does.
A muscle spasm works through my hand as I search, frenzied panic swelling in my chest as my eyes rove over the makeup, unable to find the bottle I want.
“I can’t tell you all my secrets. Where’s the fun in that?”
Freezing, I tilt my head up, glancing at him in the mirror. He’s sitting on the bed now, having discarded his puffer jacket, and is working the sleeves of his black button-down, folding them back over his forearms.
Heat pools between my legs as he uncovers his inked skin, and my eyes struggle to memorize the images in person. Skulls, flowers, and music notes are among the designs, each one having a profound—and totally unwelcome—effect on the pace of my heartbeat.
It’s almost enough to distract me from his words, but then I blink, realizing what he’s just said.
Words I spoke the night we met, before we’d even left the charity gala.
He smirks, seeming to notice how flustered he’s making me.
“What?” he prompts, switching to his other arm, working the sleeve up. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
Placing his arms behind him on the mattress, Aiden leans back; his thighs are spread wide, the black boots on his feet somehow adding a layer of intimidation that makes it difficult to draw air.
It’s power.
Raw, magnetic, and all-consuming as he holds it over me.
It leaves me feeling somehow sick and elated at the same time.
“Does Caleb know your secrets?”
Reflexively, my face pinches. “Caleb doesn’t really know anything about me.”
“Nothing? What does he think you’re doing here, all by your lonesome?”
I shrug. “He thinks I’m a freelance web designer from Florida, and that I moved here because my parents used to vacation in Denver.”
“And that your name is Angel,” he says. A dark brow arches, an accusation lacing his tone. “Don’t forget that.”
“It was the first one that came to mind when I was making the new identity,” I admit, spinning around in my chair. I keep the wipe pressed against my skin, reaching up to adjust my robe when his gaze drifts to where it gapes slightly.
“Sure you didn’t do it to ease your guilt?”
I scoff, my agitation growing, slipping like dust between my fingers as I try to control it. “Why on earth would that have helped? It’s a constant reminder of how I fucked up every time anyone speaks to me.”
Aiden snorts. “Yeah, you seem real bent out of shape over it. He call you that when he comes for you? Does he bend you over, whisper the name I gave you, and pump you full?”
“You’re disgusting.” Tears sting my eyes as I push to my feet, scrambling toward the bathroom.
My hands scrape the door, nails raking over the surface just as heat floods my back; he crashes into me at the same time he pulls the door shut, flattening me against it.
“Where do you think you’re going? I’m not done talking to you.”
I squirm, jerking my shoulders around as I try to keep the wipe in place. His hand comes up, inked fingers encircling my wrist, trying to tug it away.
“I’m not discussing my sex life with you.”
“Why not?” He shifts, grinding his hips into my lower back, and goddamnit if he isn’t hard.
Does he like seeing me struggle?
The thought leaves my mind as soon as it arrives, forced out because it has no place there. It doesn’t matter what this psycho likes; I’m not supposed to be interested.
“I think I deserve to know who you’ve been fucking since I saw you last,” he says, reaching up to pull my hair to the side. “Especially since you didn’t let me that night in the city.”
“Good thing, too, since you’ve clearly turned out to be a crazy person.”
“Surprised you didn’t already know about that. There’s a whole section of my Wikipedia page dedicated to it. I thought you used to be a fan, angel.”
His words give me pause, because I’m not sure if he’s being facetious or not. It’s been a long time since I actively stalked his informational pages, though, having opted for occasional check-ins through social media only over the years.