Page 169 of Tell Me Pucking Lies

“She’d be dead if I hadn’t.”

“She’s still a liability.”

The words fade when someone shuts a door.

My heart rate kicks up. Liability. They’re talking about me like I’m a problem to be solved.

I swing my legs off the bed. The floor’s cold against my bare feet, grounding. I stand carefully, testing my balance. The drugs are mostly worn off now, just leaving behind a headache and cotton mouth.

I open the nightstand drawer, looking for my phone—empty except for a folded t-shirt and a half-drunk bottle of water. I grab the water and down it in three desperate gulps. It’s not enough.

My phone’s not here, or in my back pocket.

The door creaks when I push it open, loud in the quiet. The hallway smells like coffee and cigarette smoke, domestic and threatening all at once.

Down the hall, I can see into what looks like a kitchen or dining area. Someone sits at a table with their back to me—broad shoulders in a black hoodie, posture relaxed like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Revan.

I’d recognize that silhouette anywhere.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears me, casual as anything. “Well, look who decided to wake up.”

My voice is hoarse, raw. “Where’s my brother?”

“Safe,” he says. Too quick, too easy.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.” He turns back to whatever he’s doing, dismissive.

I step closer, fists tight at my sides, nails cutting into my palms. “What did you do to him?”

Revan doesn’t look at me, just stirs his coffee with a spoon. The sound is rhythmic, maddening. “Whatwedid was save your ass. You were about to be traded like a bag of coke, Lexi. You’re welcome.”

“Where am I?”

“Somewhere no one will find you. Cabin’s off-grid.”

“You meanReaper territory.”

He finally looks up, and there’s that infuriating smirk. “Smart girl.”

I swallow hard, trying not to let him see the shake in my hands. My whole body is trembling—fear, rage, leftover adrenaline. “How did you––” I inhale. “I want to see Axel.”

“Soon.”

“I said—”

He stands. The chair legs scrape against the floor, a sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Soon,” he repeats, stepping closer. The calm in his voice is worse than anger would be, more threatening. “You’ve got questions. You’ll get answers. But first—rest. You’ll need it.”

“For what?”

He grins, and there’s nothing friendly in it. “For what comes next.”

Then he turns and walks toward the door, leaving me standing there barefoot and dizzy and still half-high, staring at the empty mug he left behind.

A coffee ring stains the wooden table.