Page 162 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

He kisses my shoulder before whispering, “Take a shower. Then come back.”

I slip out of bed as quietly as possible, hyperaware of Scarlett’s sleeping form across the room. My legs tremble from more than just what happened—from exhaustion, from the emotional whiplash of the last few days.

In the bathroom, I turn the water as hot as I can stand and scrub my skin raw, trying to wash away the week that won’t leave me. The bruises are faint, yellowing, but there.

When I come out, towel twisted around my hair, Koa’s sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his jeans. He’s moving carefully, favoring his ribs. He watches me with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable but doesn’t.

“You always look at people like that?” I whisper, rummaging through my dresser for clean clothes.

“Only you.”

The words settle into my chest, warm and dangerous.

I start dressing—leggings, a clean t-shirt. “Where’s my brother?”

“Out of rehab.”

I freeze, one arm halfway through my sleeve. “What? When?”

“Today.”

My pulse spikes, anxiety flooding back. “Is he okay?”

Koa stands, tugs his hoodie over his head with a grunt of pain. “I know where he is. I can take you to him.”

“Now?” Hope and fear war in my chest.

He nods once.

Scarlett mumbles something in her sleep as I grab my jacket and shoes. I don’t think, don’t question. I just follow Koa out into the hallway, down the stairs, into the night.

The night air bites, sharp and damp with the promise of rain. We don’t speak on the drive. Koa’s hands are tight on the wheel, his jaw set. The streetlights blur by too fast, and I watch the familiar campus buildings give way to industrial areas I don’t know that well.

When the warehouse comes into view, I frown. Why is Axel here?

“What is this place?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Just parks the Charger and kills the engine. The silence that follows is oppressive.

“Koa?”

He gets out, comes around to my side, and opens my door. Takes my hand. His palm is warm, callused, and I cling to it like a lifeline as he leads me toward the building.

The metal door screeches when he pulls it open. The sound hits first—metal echo, muffled voices, footsteps. Then the smell—rust and concrete and something chemical that makes my nose burn.

We step inside and my eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

Then I see someone in the middle of the room, tied to a chair.

Axel?

He’s gagged with what looks like a dirty rag. His eyes are wild, panicked, and when he sees me they go even wider. He thrashes against the restraints, the chair scraping against the concrete floor.

And standing in front of him, all slick grin and gray beard, is an unfamiliar man. Could this be the asshole who’s been coming to my room?

His pupils are blown wide, jaw twitching rhythmically. High as hell.

“There she is!” he says, arms spread wide like I’m a prize he’s won. “The guest of honor.”