Page 24

My head pounded, pain piercing sharply behind my eyes. I got in the shower, because doing as I was told was easier than thinking for myself.
The hot water poured over my head, drowning the lengths of my short hair instantly. It was the perfect temperature, hot enough to turn my skin pink, and soothed over tense, aching muscles. I dropped my head forward, letting the spray pound on the back of my neck and rivulets run over my body.
With water running in my eyes, I blindly groped at the shower caddy on the wall, grabbing a bottle of what I hoped was bodywash, but shampoo would do the same thing. I squirted a dollop of it onto my palm, the scent rising with the steam of the water.
I opened my eyes in surprise and took in the label on the bottle.
It was my favorite. The same one I used at home, because it smelled like peaches and vanilla.
He’d bought it for me. I was sure of it. His bodywash sat in a black bottle next to it, the scent deeply masculine and at complete odds with the one I used.
I could have tried to convince myself that it was a coincidence. Or that he wanted a bottle of something feminine for when he had other women here.
But I knew neither of those were true.
I stood in that shower until the water ran cold, and then I stood there some more, deserving the punishment for the way I treated him.
Fang was not the sort of man you used for a good time. And yet I hadn’t ever been able to stop.
I turned the water off and pulled aside the shower curtain.
A neatly folded gray towel sat on the closed toilet lid, along with a faded T-shirt I’d seen him wear. I wrapped the towel around myself and then picked up the T-shirt, holding it to my face and inhaling the scent. It smelled clean but still faintly of him.
I was sure nothing had ever smelled so good or so comforting. Knowing I was playing with fire, I dried myself off and slipped into his clothes.
The hem hung around my knees, and the sleeves halfway down my arms. But it was as soft as I’d thought, and there was no way I was putting on that dress again. I picked it up off the floor and shoved it into the bin by the sink.
“Rebel. Are you okay?”
I wasn’t, but I opened the door and stepped out.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed again, with his elbows resting on his knees. He looked up when I entered, his long blond hair falling in his eyes.
In an instant, his expression changed from neutral, to something cold and dark. He pushed to his feet violently fast, and startled, I skittered back into the bathroom until my ass hit the sink. But he didn’t stop. He strode right after me, caging me in with his big body, his fingers gripping my chin again so he could see my face.
“What. The. Fuck?”
“What?” I yelped.
“Your face. It’s covered in bruises.”
Oh shit. I hadn’t even thought of that when I’d been in the shower. I’d so painstakingly covered each and every one of them with heavy foundation that morning, but the shower must have washed it off. I turned away, hoping I could still hide the damage. “They aren’t bruises. It’s just my mascara running.”
“Bullshit. Who did this to you?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine.”
“Say you’re fine again, Rebel, and I swear, my head will implode. I’m trying real hard not to walk out this door and kill every man who has ever looked at you. So please. Do me a favor, and tell me which one it was, so innocent people don’t have to die today.”
I twisted out of his grasp and stared at myself in the mirror.
It was like punching myself in the gut.
My face was a mess, even after a week. If anything, it seemed worse with the bruises in various states of healing and all sorts of different colors. I sighed. “No.”
Confusion flickered on his face. “No? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m not telling you who did it, because I have it handled.”