But he doesn’t know the awful truth still churning my stomach. Namely, the true identity of “Bran.” The way he’s watched me for so damn long. The horrible suspicion that planting the camera in my room wasn’t done with the sole intention of catching me with someone.
He wanted to see me. Control me.
Exploit any part of my life that he could.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Rafe repeats, flexing his fingers as if force alone can drive that fact into my skull. “Sex is sex, bunny. You made your choice to fuck me. I made my choice to fuck you back—and it was damn good.”
I flinch at how casual he makes it sound. Like he’s said that line before—many times.
“You left last night,” I point out, switching to a subject that makes him stiffen this time. He’s right. I didn’t sleep at all.
But did he?
“Were you with Bonnie?” Would I even have the right to be upset if he had been with the perky blond?
“I was up here,” he admits softly.
I observe him more carefully, noting the shadows beneath his eyes I’d missed before. The slight redness to them. He’s disguised it so well, but he’s wrecked.
“All night?”
He nods. “All fucking night. Any more questions?”
“What were you doing up here?” I glance around the wide space skeptically, but I believe him.
“Thinking,” he says, snatching his beer for another sip. His clenched jaw evokes troubles well beyond my personal issues.
“Thinking about Faith?”
He nods.
“And your uncle?”
Irritation flashes across his face. “What about him?”
I struggle to remember some of the conversation I’d overheard between the two. “He wanted you to do something about what happened to her. About Gino—”
“He wants me to do a lot of shit,” he says, neither a confirmation nor a denial.
“I heard what he said to you the other night, too,” I confess. “He thinks Gino had something to do with Faith’s death, doesn’t he? And he wants you to confront him. Attack him?”
Or worse.
“Don’t worry about him.”
“What if… What if Gino didn’t hurt Faith?” I suck in a breath, fully prepared to confess the truth. “I—”
“Gino has a motive, but I hope the bastard wasn’t that stupid,” Rafe says. Going off the low note in his voice, he truly means it. “Whoever killed Faith, I pity the motherfucker. He’s a dead man walking.”
“Because of your uncle?” I blurt out. I recall how the older man had reacted to the news. As if Faith’s death were some kind of personal slight against him.
Rafe shrugs. “Because, bunny, people who do bad shit tend to have it catch up to them eventually. Faith’s killer is running out of places to hide.”
I bite my lip. Despite everything Branden is, and everything he’s done…
Some part of me won’t stop clinging to that damn, pathetic phrase—you owe him.
“What the fuck were you doing eavesdropping anyway,” Rafe demands, thankfully changing the subject.
“I couldn’t sleep, and your uncle isn’t exactly the quietest person in the world.”
“And?” he adds pointedly. “What else did you hear?”
I swallow hard. “And… He doesn’t appreciate your art.” It seems so childish to point out—but the insult bothers me more than it should. I’ve seen his drawings. How he looks when in the throes of his craft. I know what the mere act of sketching lines on paper means to him.
Even now, he’s tensing, his expression constricted as he chugs more of his beer. At his sides, his fingers twitch as if itching for a pen.
“My turn,” he says, once again putting the focus on me. “So, you left him. Bran. What now?”
Any hint of vulnerability vanishes from his expression. His features harden, and a sudden thought strikes me—he already knows what I’ll say, or at least he thinks he does.
I need to go back.
“I don’t know,” I confess, relaxing against the firmness of his knee. “It’s not like he left me much of a choice, to be honest. He bought out my lease. The landlord already found a new tenant. I’m homeless. And if I don’t figure things out soon, I won’t be able to take the classes I want to next semester either.”
“Why is that?”
I hesitate, but as his fingers sink through my hair, I find myself speaking. “I wanted to enter this program—the Fenwick program,” I admit, fully aware of how childish it sounds now, all things considered. “If I’m accepted, it will mean an internship and a foothold into the publishing world. Otherwise, I’d be stuck taking random credits and waste a year. Though hell, it’s not like I had a shot of getting in, anyway.”
“Bullshit,” Rafe coldly interjects. “You know you’ll get in. That’s what scares you. Getting in means leaving the fucker behind. Whether or not you even realize it, he’s controlling you.”
My lips part, but any retort I might come up with dies in my throat. He’s right, and it’s unnerving how easily he can read me. His fingers trace my scalp to reinforce the comparison, picking through my thoughts as though I’m an open book, turning my previous impression of him on its head.
“It doesn’t matter if I can’t get my entry written in time,” I say.
Without some kind of academic pursuit to justify my father’s funding, my entire quest for freedom might go up in flames as well. Not to mention if Bran decides to convince him to stop paying my tuition anyway. A tired laugh trickles from me, but inside? I’m screaming.
Branden’s won again. Though, despite his efforts, I’m not back in his cage just yet. By pure luck, or by design?
And, despite all his faults, is he really capable of murder?
“You’re worried about him,” Rafe deduces, unable to hide the jealousy tainting his tone. “Bran.”
“He’s a cop,” I reply. “He’s been tracking my phone. He probably already knows I’m here. Any minute he could trump up a warrant and—”
“Cop or not, I won’t let anyone touch you.”
My body flushes warm in response to his confidence. It’s more than a boast.
“You’re sure of that?” I peek at him
