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He frowns. "Okay. I'll get you some clean clothes and leave them on the sink."

"B—Sebastian?"

"Yeah?"

"If you set that fucking Texas tits shirt in here, I swear to god, Iwillstab you."

He smiles. And I've seenSebastiansmile. But that version of himwasjust a man—a twenty-something guy who didn't take his fucking job seriously and who, I'm pretty sure, was sampling the products from the pharmacy.

He was beautiful, and he played ignorant well enough that I believed it. I wonder who taught him how to lie like that.

Bone Saw, on the other hand, I've only heard smiling. I didn't expect him to be beautiful.

"I'll find something else, okay?" He reaches for me again, resting his hand on the nape of my neck, and then leans in and kisses me on the lips. Still in shock, I don't kiss him back at all. Frowning, he turns toward the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob, looking back to add, "I do care about you, Teagan."

"I'd hate to see what it would look like if you didn't."

He nods. "Yeah, you would."

When the door clicks shut, I strip down and step under the spray, washing the dirt and blood from my skin.

And when I step out, there are clothes waiting on the counter—my own clothes. Not exactly eager to face him again, I take my time dressing, lingering in the bathroom while listening to him on the other side of the door. But I have to face him at some point, right?

"Hey," he says when I step into the bedroom. "There's water…and something for the pain."

I pop the white pill into my mouth, wash it down, and then sit on the edge of the bed.

"These aremyclothes," I say.

"Yeah. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"These are my clothes…that River bought for me. How did you get them?"

"From the tour bus," he says. "I'll give them back to you."

I crawl into bed, pull the covers over my body, and stare up at the ceiling.

"What's wrong?" Sebastian asks, caressing my cheek. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? That's what you said—skin to touch…" He presses his lips to my shoulder. "My mouth on your body."

"You lied to me. Everyone fucking lies to me. I'm so tired of it."

"I never said that I wasn't Sebastian."

"Is that your real name, or your real fake name?" I ask.

"Sebastian Torres is my real name," he says. "But I don't exist anywhere on paper anymore. I like to hear it sometimes, too. Just…not as this. I lied about growing up in the Philippines—I've never been there—but my mother did. I do speak Tagalog…along with seven other languages. And everything else I've told you as both things is true. I don't talk to the De Rossis."

"What's the point in speaking eight languages when you're not allowed to talk?"

"I do a lot of listening. And other things, too. Besides, I had a lot of motivation to learn very quickly."

"What kind of motivation?"

He sits up and pulls his shirt over his head, and I gasp when I see it—themotivation. His entire back is covered in angry, red scars. Some in thick ropes running down his back and below his waistline as if from a whip. Others are deep burn marks or knife wounds, and chunks of his skin are missing.

"Does it hurt?" I ask.

"No," he says. "Not now."