Page 38 of Web of Lies

Riley

With my fingers gripping the fabric of Kyle's sweatshirt, I cling to him as he speeds down the street.

The wind whips past us as I squeeze my eyes shut.

My heart thumps in my chest, its echo drumming in my ears.

Tears burn behind my eyelids, but I fight them back, trying to stay calm and process the flood of information that has been dumped on me: our truth, our lies, our secrets. It's all too much.

Only when the air around us cools down and the roar of the engine is replaced by an eerie silence, do I finally open my eyes. The dim, familiar light of the underground garage of Kyle's apartment building engulfs us as he directs the bike into his parking spot.

The sudden silence that replaces the lingering echo of Chloé's voice, the bustling street, and the wind whipping past nearly sends my mind into a spiral as I'm left alone with my thoughts.

I swing one shaky leg over the side, climb off, and pull off the helmet, hugging it to my chest. Kyle follows a second later, kicking the footstand into place.

"I want to go home," I say with a quiet, shaky voice.

"Not on my watch," he says, placing his hand on the small of my back and guiding me toward the elevators.

"If Chloé doesn't hand you over, your apartment will be the first place they search.

" He scans his keycard, and the elevator doors slide open with a soft hiss.

Kyle ushers me inside and enters the access code for his floor.

The doors close with a soft buzz, and the number panel lights up, counting upward while skipping every floor.

As soon as the elevator doors open, I freeze.

My gaze falls on the familiar sight of my terrariums, which are neatly arranged on the dining table.

Dumpster sits in front of one of them, her paw touching the glass where one of my spiders sits in its web.

My heart leaps as I rush inside and count through each enclosure to make sure they're all there.

A wave of relief washes over me when I find them all safe and sound where they should be.

Even Mocha, my little escape artist, sits perched on a tiny twig in her terrarium.

"How did you do it?" I ask, turning to face Kyle, tears welling up in my eyes.

"I had some help. Riley, everything is okay. You're safe here," he says.

"Am I?" I ask as I slide into one of the chairs, prop my elbows on the table, and bury my face in my palms. "I'm in the same room as the Butcher.

I'm not safe at all." A sigh slips from his lips as he walks over to the open kitchen, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and sets it down in front of me.

"Riley, how long have we been seeing each other?"

"Eight months."

"In those eight months," he says, his voice dropping, "have I ever made you feel like I wanted to hurt you?"

I stay quiet, thinking back over the past year with Kyle.

Even when he tied me up and tattooed his name on me, I never felt like I was in real danger.

I always had the option to say our safe word, and he would've stopped.

He proved today that the word carries weight.

Even caught in a fit of rage, ready to kill Chloé, he let go the moment I said it.

But still, our safe word doesn't stop the truth.

"That doesn't change the fact that you're the Butcher."

"And you're a rat."

"That's different."

"Is it?" He raises an eyebrow. "We're both liars, Riley.

The only difference is that we're on opposite sides.

Depending on who you ask, either one of us could be the villain.

" I narrow my eyes at him, pressing my lips into a thin line.

"Neither of us looks good in this scenario," Kyle continues.

"You're a traitor, Riley. If this comes out, you're in way more trouble than I am right now.

I've got the contacts to disappear. You?

You've got your old employer and Hunt ready to track you down. "

He cuts straight to the point with no sugarcoating or pretending, and I hate that he isn't completely wrong.

He sees the truth for what it is, even when it's ugly.

I should hate him for that. For being the Butcher.

For calling me out. He's so damn calm while everything in me feels like it's falling apart.

"You're not just killing people for your job," I snap. "You slaughter them like cattle."

"Yes," he says through clenched teeth, narrowing his eyes. "But I have my reasons."

"Reasons?" I let out a mocking scoff. "I'm dying to hear what kind of reason could justify butchering people like that?"

His eyes remain fixed on me, and for the first time, I notice a hint of hesitation beneath his confident exterior before he lets out a sigh. "My mom is a cannibal."

"What?" My voice cracks as the word tumbles off my tongue. Bile crawls up my throat as my stomach twists, and I stare at him. He can't mean her. The woman he talks fondly of is supposed to be a cannibal? "You are all monsters," I say, my face twisting with confusion.

"If that's what you want to believe."

I rise to my feet, throw the chair back, and storm toward him.

My fists slam into his chest, and he takes the punch.

"You fooled me." I hit him again. "You made a joke out of me.

" Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over.

"You—" My voice catches in my throat. The memory of the restaurant crashes back into my mind like a wave.

My chest heaves, my lungs constricting as panic floods my senses.

"It was you at the restaurant?" I ask in a barely audible whisper.

"Yes."

I take a step back, putting distance between us.

My chest tightens, torn between the image of the man who made me laugh, who made me feel safe, and the one who forced himself on me.

"This was all just a game to you, wasn't it?

Sleeping with me… acting like you cared.

Then, when you found out I was looking for the Butcher, you thought it would be hilarious to mess with me? "

"No." His voice remains calm, and he takes a step toward me.

"Don't lie." I snap, tears rolling down my cheeks. I raise my hand to wipe it away as if that could hide how much this is breaking me.

"I'm not lying, Riley."

"You do. You're just like me; you're nothing more than a liar."

"Riley." He raises his voice—sharp and loud—and I flinch, taking another step back.

He stops right where he is, though, lifting both hands as if he's surrendering.

"Listen," he says, his voice calmer now.

"Yes, I'm the Butcher. Yes, I sell the meat and organs of my targets.

" Each word hits me like a punch in the gut.

"But you're not my target." His voice softens even more. "You're the woman I love."

My eyes widen, and the world blurs at the edges until all I see is him right in front of me.

My heart stutters at the sound of his confession—the words I've wanted to hear all this time—directed at me.

For months, I told myself not to get attached.

Told myself not to let the nights we spent together get under my skin.

I kept repeating it like a mantra: It's just fun.

Just a distraction. But it didn't work because I fell in love with him.

And now, here we are: he loves me back. But the man I fell for is the same man I was supposed to track.

"No," I whisper, shaking my head. "No." The room suddenly feels smaller and darker, as if the walls are closing in on me. My body screams at me to move—to run or fight—but my heart won't let me.

"I do," he says again, taking a step closer. "Riley, I love you."

"This is a joke." Tears stream down my cheeks.

"You love me?" The words burn on my tongue like acid.

"You don't get to say that." My hands land flat on his chest, but he doesn't budge when I shove him.

"You lied to me. You manipulated me for weeks.

You used me. You played me. You assaulted me. You tattooed me, Kyle."

He doesn't argue. Instead, he just stands there and lets me hit him over and over again. Eventually, my hands curl into trembling fists, clutching his shirt as if I'm trying to either hold on to him or rip him apart.

"God, I should hate you," I choke out, my voice cracking under the weight of the truth.

"Hate me all you want," he says in a soft, irritating voice. "Scream at me. Hit me. I don't care. I'll take it. I can love us both, even if you hate me."

His calm demeanor only makes things worse, fueling the fury burning in my chest. With both hands flat against his chest, I push him, but he barely moves. He takes a small step back, as if he's letting me have my way.

"Let it out," he says.

"I fucking hate you." The words rip from my chest like a wound torn open. I shove him again, harder this time.

"Yes, that's good." His words mess with my head. They twist anger with confusion. How dare he? How dare he twist this into something encouraging? I pound my fists against his chest again and again, each impact dull against his muscles.

"You're an asshole." I raise my voice and pull back to strike again, but his fingers catch my wrists.

His grip is firm yet not forceful as he pulls me into his embrace.

"Let me go." I squirm in his grip. My chest heaves against his, my breathing jagged and frantic.

Then, his scent fills my nose: the same damn scent of lemon, pepper, and cedar wood mixed with the faintest trace of tobacco.

It was a smell I could turn to when everything else was falling apart.

It meant that I wasn't alone. It meant I was safe.

It meant him. But now, it's a cruel haunting memory of something I want to run from and crawl into at the same time.

Avoiding his gaze, I dip my head forward and hide my face in his shoulder, sliding my arms around his chest. He releases my wrists, pulls me in close, and wraps his arms around me.

"I never meant to hurt you," he says. "It may be hard to understand, but I was trying to protect you. I didn't plan any of this." His fingers thread through my hair. "I want to help you, Riley," he whispers, burying his face in my hair. "I want you to be safe. I want you with me."

Safe. The words hit me like a punch in the face.

What does "safe" even mean anymore? Am I safe with him?

Or safe from him? My thoughts crash into each other, fighting for my attention.

The hypocrisy burns in my chest, knocking the air out of my lungs.

I'm far from innocent myself. I've lied, pretended, and kept secrets from him, all while expecting him to be honest with me.

"I want to be alone," I whisper. My voice is barely audible, each word scraping against the ache in my throat.

"I can't let you leave." Kyle's voice is low. "They'll look for you all over the city."

There's no point in arguing because he's right.

The moment I step outside, someone else will come after me.

I simply don't have the strength to fight anymore.

Today's events have drained me of all my energy, and I can't do this anymore.

My head throbs, my muscles ache, and my soul feels bruised. I need silence. I need space.

"I know," I say after a long pause, my voice cracking. "I know I'm in trouble. I just... I'm tired, Kyle."

At first, he doesn't argue. When I finally force myself to look up, I catch the flicker of guilt in his deep brown eyes.

"I'll give you space," he finally says. "You can have my room or the guest room. Whatever you want."

I pull back from him, putting that small but necessary distance between us. "I'll take the guest room."

"Okay."

Without another word, I turn toward the hallway. Each step I take feels heavier than the last. When I reach the door to the guest room, I pause, my hand trembling as I grip the doorknob. I push it open, step inside, quietly close it behind me, and twist the lock.

The moment the deadbolt clicks, I lose my balance, collapse onto the bed, and bury my face in the pillow. A muffled scream tears from my throat, a burst of raw, jagged pain echoing through my body.