Page 29 of Web of Lies

Kyle

Earlier this morning, while Riley was still asleep, I slipped out and went to her apartment.

Not only did I pick up everything on her list, but I also took the chance to look around her place.

But I found absolutely no evidence of who attacked her.

No clue, no lead, no hint about who might be after her.

However, I found clear signs of a break-in.

The broken lock on her door. The cracked drywall.

The shattered window. But who would do that?

It wasn't me. I tried to scare her once before, and it backfired big time.

There's no reason to pull that same stunt again.

Now I'm standing by the stove, focused on the pan as the sauce simmers and the bubbling of the pasta water fills the quiet kitchen. Steam rises from the pot, filling the air with the scent of cheesy sauce.

Dumpster sits on the counter, eyes locked on the pot of cheese sauce, and every now and then she attempts to dip her paw into it. As she tries yet again, I nudge her paw away, earning a high-pitched, ear-piercing scream from those tiny lungs.

I made the terrible mistake of giving her cheese one time after rescuing her as a kitten.

When I found her, she was only about ten weeks old, had the cat flu, and was covered in fleas and ticks.

Despite taking her to the vet, I thought she wouldn't make it, so I wanted her to have some special treats and enjoy her short life to the fullest. But against all odds, the little screamer proved herself to be tough and survived, and now she's hooked on cheese.

"I didn't know you could cook," Riley says, pulling me out of my thoughts and drawing my attention to her. She's sitting at the dining table with her laptop open in front of her. She didn't want to go to the office today, which I can understand, so she's working from "home".

"Ah, yeah. It's just the basics my mom taught me," I say with a shrug.

"But most days, I'm either too lazy or too busy to bother.

" Once the sauce is done, I turn off the stove, drain the pasta, and transfer it to two plates.

Then, I add the sauce and carry the plates to the dining table.

I set one down next to her laptop and sit down opposite of her with the other.

"I see." She pulls one leg up and props her foot on the chair, then wraps her arms around it. "You don't talk about your parents often, but the few times you've mentioned them, it sounded like they mean a lot to you."

I pause and scan her face, trying to find the reason behind her question. But I read only honest curiosity on her face.

"Why do you want to know?" I ask, lifting a spoonful of food to my mouth.

She shrugs and reaches for her spoon, picking at the noodles. "I don't know. I guess I just want to understand you better," she says. "Who shaped you into the man you are?"

"Well, then, they are important to me," I say between bites.

"To put it kindly, my mom is a little special.

Picture three stray cats in a trench coat.

It's chaotic, but she's got a big heart.

" Riley smiles at the description of my mother.

For now, it's the best way to describe her positive qualities, and it's easier than telling the whole truth.

"And your dad?"

I lean back in my chair, rhythmically bobbing the spoon up and down. "He's the polar opposite. Calm and everything is well thought out and calculated."

Riley hums thoughtfully, her gaze drifting over me. "That makes a lot of sense." A chuckle slips from her lips as she props her chin against her knee.

"What does?"

"You," she says simply, shrugging as she lifts a bite to her mouth. "All your layers."

"Layers, huh?" A slow smile tugs at my lips. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

A soft laugh escapes her. "Maybe both. But it fits. You're chaotic sometimes, reckless even, but then there's this other side—calm, calculating. Like you're always trying to figure out the best way to handle something."

"In this line of work, we can't be just reckless, even if I want to sometimes," I say, taking another bite. "I'd be dead in a week."

"Yeah, that's true." She sighs, lifting her free hand to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"How about your parents?" It's a casual enough question, but I've noticed that she avoids the topic whenever it comes up.

While I occasionally bring up my parents, Riley has managed to avoid the topic of her family with ease.

I could have done my own research, of course, but I typically don't feel the need to do that with women I'm in casual relationships with.

And when I'm seriously dating someone, I want to give them the chance to open up on their own terms.

She freezes, the spoon trapped between her lips.

Her eyes dart back and forth before shifting back to mine.

A flicker of hesitation flashes across her face before she exhales and lowers the spoon from her mouth.

"My mom died in a car crash when I was nine, and my dad was arrested and sentenced to ten years in prison when I was eighteen. "

The information hits me like a slap in the face, leaving me momentarily stunned. I clear my throat and steady my voice, pushing back the rough sound. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Riley shakes her head in response. "It's life," she says, her lips curving downward into something that isn't a smile.

Seventeen years or not, her eyes still hold her pain—it's the kind that never fully fades, only buries itself deeper.

She lifts another spoonful of food to her mouth and looks away.

"And what about your dad?"

Her eyes flick up to mine again, and this time a short, breathy laugh slips out. "He hacked into an investment firm, stole a shit ton of money, and got caught."

"Oh, so your dad is a hacker too?"

"Yes," Riley admits without hesitation. "He taught me the basics, and eventually I developed my own style and methods."

"Interesting." I hum as I study how her mood shifts.

Sadness lingers in her eyes, but her features soften into an almost amused expression.

She misses her dad; that much is clear. But if he was arrested when she was eighteen, then his sentence must be almost over.

In two years, he will be released, and they can see each other again.

"Are you still in touch with him?" I ask, tilting my head, sounding more curious than I mean to.

"Not really. We only send each other birthday cards," she admits with a faint smile. "After his sentencing, his lawyer sent me a letter, warning that we should keep contact to a minimum so I wouldn't get into trouble."

"That makes sense."

"Yeah, but I still miss him sometimes." Her sigh carries more weight than her words. "The first few years were hard, but once I joined Hunt and met Evelyn and some of the others, life started to feel easier. More colorful again."

"I imagine." I nod slowly. "I meant what I said yesterday.

I want to help you. You've… become important to me, Riley.

" Her eyes widen, her lips parting slightly, that spark of surprise softening into something warmer.

"I won't lose you to some lunatic," I add in a calm but firm voice.

I mean it; the Butcher won't get her, not on my watch.

She rolls her eyes and tilts her head down to avoid my gaze, but the faint flush on her cheeks gives her away.

It's always the little details with her—the quick glance she throws or the way her hands tighten around the spoon.

"What information do you already have about the butcher?" I ask, changing the topic once again.

"Some," she says, bringing her spoon back to her lips and biting on it in a nervous gesture. She shifts quickly from being caught in her emotions back to thinking mode.

"Would you mind showing me?"

"What? Really?" At my suggestion, her face betrays a hint of surprise.

"Yes, I'm out on the street a lot. I know a lot of people who talk, so maybe I'll recognize something or someone in the information you collected." Her gaze shifts away from mine and darts around the room until it settles on an empty wall in my kitchen.

"Do you mind if I put everything up there?" She asks, and I furrow my brows, turning my head toward where she is looking.

"Up there? Why don't you show me everything on your laptop?"

"It's easier to get an overall view of the situation like this."

"Okay." I shrug. "Knock yourself out."

She shovels the last bite of food into her mouth, pushes her plate aside, and stands up.

She grabs her laptop and the thick folder of documents, flips it open, and begins sorting through the pages.

In no time, she's plastering the wall with notes, photos, and maps—every scrap of evidence of the butcher that she must have found since starting her investigation.

Then, before picking up another piece of paper, she raises her arms and sweeps her hair into a high ponytail. The simple gesture does something to me. Blood pools between my legs and rushes into my cock. Digging my teeth into the inside of my cheek, I force myself to stay focused.

It's such a simple action, but every time she does it, I know she's about to get serious, and that's the part that gets me.

It's not just the smooth stretch of her arms or the way her neck is exposed.

Though damn, that alone could ruin me. It's a shift in her entire energy.

She becomes focused and driven, as if her mind clicks into place like a weapon loading.

It's hands down the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

And I've seen her in many positions, most of which are flattering and some of which are downright sinful. But nothing compares to this.