Page 26 of Web of Lies

Riley

I'm standing in Kyle's spacious bathroom, one foot propped on a stool, studying the tattoo he marked me with.

At first, I thought it was just a messed-up dream caused by one too many drinks and my vivid imagination.

But no. I woke up with an uncomfortable mix of itchiness and a stinging sensation tugging at my skin.

When I checked the area, I was greeted by the sight of a clear tattoo patch that was oozing with black wound fluid.

I kicked him the moment I realized it, leaped out of bed, and ran straight to the bathroom. Where I am now, staring at the tattoo that reads: "Property of Kyle Bennett."

That bastard , I curse under my breath.

My heart drums, torn between anger and excitement.

The meaning behind the tattoo represents everything I've been secretly craving.

It should piss me off that he became so jealous after seeing me with Mr. Hunt last night that he lashed out by marking me like this.

And it pisses me off. He took something from me without asking.

But it doesn't affect me the way it should, and that's what makes me sick. Seeing him lose control because of me has been the most thrilling, terrifying, and exciting experience of my life. It was wrong, and I hate myself for enjoying it. I hate that I’m no longer sure where the line between right and wrong is with him.

After finally untying me, he didn’t just leave.

He cared for me. He bathed me and cleaned my fresh tattoo.

He worked ointment and lotion into my skin.

I almost forgot that those same hands had tied me up, tattooed me, and filled me.

And that’s the problem. In one night, he showed me both his darkest and softest sides, and instead of anger, I'm left with confusion.

He went too far. Way too far. But, knowing Kyle and his tendency toward reckless outbursts, this might actually be the lesser of two evils, as it could have been much worse.

I could get the tattoo covered up or burn it away with laser treatment.

However, if he had attacked Hunt, the consequences would have been impossible to cover up or undo.

With a sigh, I grab the tattoo lotion and apply a generous amount to the new ink, hissing at the sting.

Then, I grab the oversized T-shirt I snatched from his closet and pull it on, followed by the skirt I wore last night.

I tuck the hem of the shirt into the waistband and glance at my reflection.

My hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and I'm wearing minimal makeup.

At least I don't look like someone on a walk of shame, dragging myself home after a one-night stand.

I step out of the bathroom and into the open living space, where I find Kyle at the stove.

Shirtless, he stands there, stirring something in a small pot.

Steam curls above the pot, carrying the warm, comforting scents of porridge and cinnamon.

My stomach growls, eager to fill the void left by the alcohol.

Dumpster sits on the counter beside him, her fluffy tail wiggling as she looks up at Kyle with that intense stare of hers.

Every now and then, she meows as if she's trying to get his attention.

"Everything okay?" he asks, his voice calm and casual as he divides the porridge into two bowls.

"No," I say, hopping onto a stool at the counter. "I have a tattoo of your fucking name on my thigh."

He glances up at me with an annoyingly calm yet smug grin plastered on his face. "If you find an empty spot on my body, you're more than welcome to tattoo your name on me."

"Kyle, this isn’t funny." I shoot him a glare before snatching one bowl of porridge.

"I just tried to be romantic," he shoots back with a wink.

"That's not romantic. That's deranged." I snap.

"It depends on who you ask. Some might think it was romantic." He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his bare chest. "You didn't seem to mind last night, though. If I remember correctly, you were practically dripping the moment that needle touched your skin."

Heat crawls up the back of my neck and creeps across my cheeks. I turn my gaze away from him and bring a spoonful of porridge to my mouth. The taste is warm and comforting on my tongue, soothing the tension in my muscles.

Just the memory of last night sends a shiver down my spine.

He's right. I enjoyed what he did to me.

I enjoyed it far too much: the sting of the needle and the burning ache of him stretching me open, which will linger all day.

He is pushing buttons that are dangerously close to territory I'm not sure I can navigate.

Part of me loves it—loves that he got jealous and lost control—but another part of me doesn't understand it and is scared.

"That doesn't change the fact that what you did was wrong. Also, I didn't know what you were tattooing on me." I don't back down. "But that's beside the point."

He chuckles. "So, what is the point, Freckles?"

"Why the fuck did you do it?"

For the first time in the conversation, his teasing falters, and the smug grin falls off his face. "Maybe I lost my mind a bit."

"A bit?" I raise an eyebrow. "So, you marked me? Like some possessive psycho because you had a freaking episode? Are you serious?"

"Yeah," he says with a shrug.

"That is not okay." I narrow my eyes at him. "Take your medication next time instead of using me as your punching bag."

"You're not my punching bag." He walks up to the counter where I'm sitting.

"Am I not? You drugged and tattooed me while I was tied up."

He falls silent for a moment, his eyes darting across my face as if he is searching for something. "I'm sorry," he finally says with a sigh.

Is that it? Just sorry? I search his face, trying to read whether he actually means it or if he's just trying to gloss over the mess he made.

"That’s all you’ve got for me? A sorry?"

"I mean it," he adds. "I've never felt this before. I know it’s irrational.

I understand how our arrangement is supposed to work.

But when I saw you with Hunt and then that jerk at the bar, my brain just—" He snaps his fingers.

" It was like a switch flipped, and suddenly, I couldn’t breathe unless I acted out. "

I keep my eyes on him as he rambles on until I can't help but let out a sigh.

"You don’t get to call this acting out." His eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't argue.

"You were out of line. You could have just talked to me instead of pulling this stunt.

" The confession of his jealousy stirs up butterflies in my stomach, making me feel giddy.

But then he brings up our arrangement. The rules echo in my mind: no strings, no feelings.

And so the butterflies drown as quickly as they came.

"I know."

"You want me to trust you, right?" I ask, meeting his gaze.

"Yes," he says.

"Then you have to trust me, too. Next time you feel like this, talk to me, and we'll work it out." I take a deep breath and reach for his hand. "You're lucky I don't hate it as much as I should."

"I'm lucky you kind of like me more than you should," he replies, holding onto my hand as he steps around the counter and comes to wrap his arms around me.

My eyes widen at his words, and my heart leaps in my chest. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I scan his face for answers. Does he know? Panic flutters in my stomach, but I force myself to smile as my fingers grow slick around the spoon.

I lean into his embrace, tilting my head back to look up at him. "What do you mean by that?" I ask.

For a moment, a softness flickers beneath the usual mischief in his eyes. But then, his lips curl into his signature smirk. "Exactly what I said. Don’t overthink it, Freckles."

"You say things like that and expect me not to overthink them?"

"Maybe I like to keep you guessing," he says with a low chuckle, brushing his thumb in lazy circles against my hip.

"But maybe I don't want to play guessing games with you."

"Maybe it isn't a game." His shoulders lift with a shrug.

Damn him. It's always the same. He knows exactly when to throw in a joke or cocky line without fail. One second, I’m stressed out, angry, or anxious.

Next, he has me smiling, blushing, or distracted enough to forget why I was upset.

It’s infuriating how easily he does it. As if he has a list of all my buttons and knows exactly which ones to press and when.

"You're impossible," I mutter, rolling my eyes while the corners of my lips twitch upward.

"And yet, here you are." He leans closer, his lips brushing against my temple.

He’s right. I could have left the moment I realized this wasn't just a drunken dream. I could have gone home, blocked his number, scheduled an appointment to get it covered, and pretended it never happened. But I didn't.

Instead, I stayed.