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“Keep your clothes on,” a soothingly deep voice commands. The authority in the tone sends a fission of enticement down my spine. Cool skin cups my face, and I find Rowan in the shadows. This is his room. Our room. His thumb swipes across my cheek. “You passed out.”
My fingers tighten around the fabric of my skirt, which I apparently have bunched at my waist. Thoughts swimming, I hiss, “Did you drug me?”
His jaw locks. “No. Whether you’re drugged at all depends on what you consider a drug.”
His mouth. His skin. His fingertips as they untangle my clothes from my hands and put my skirt back in place.
Also, ketamine, rohypnol, ecstasy…
I swear at him.
“You’re drunk, princess.”
I narrow my eyes. “Drunk?”
His cool fingertips graze my chin. “Yes.”
That can’t be right. I don’t get drunk on enemy grounds. Alcohol is a tool, like tears, like knives. Speaking of…he’s taken my knife. I no longer feel its comforting weight strapped to my thigh. So much for keep your clothes on. He lifted my skirt to take my knife sheath away before I ever did. “I’ve been violated,” I mumble.
He arches a stern brow. “I only carried you to bed.”
“I don’t drink.”
“You did. Quite a lot, too.”
Turning away, I cross my arms. “You’re lying.”
“Briar…” He sounds so sincere.
Which is how I know he’s lying.
I just wish I knew what he wanted to gain from drugging me. I want to trust that he wouldn’t take the abuse we’ve joked with this far, but I’ve been in this business long enough to know you can’t trust anyone who isn’t family.
And he isn’t my family.
Rolling over, I curl up with my back to him. Against my will, I sniffle.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs.
“I hate you.”
When his heart shatters audibly behind me, I recognize the sheer depth of how horrible I am. The feeling wells up inside me with teeth and claws, and the next thing I know, I’m sobbing.
Stressing the fact I’m a bad person, I reach for his pillow—not mine—and snot against the case, wailing away like a pathetic infant.
I don’t know how to be a good person now. It’s too late for me. Being awful is second nature. I’m selfish and arrogant and inconsiderate. And I’m actively blowing my nose into the pillow of the sweetest guy I’ve ever met as though my own pillow isn’t sitting—pristine—right next to me.
I’m delirious. Delusional. And rotten.
“You hate me,” I croak. “And you have every right to hate me. I’m despicable.”
His hand clamps around my shoulder, firm, comforting, good. “I do not hate you. Not even a little bit.”
“You should,” I whisper. “You should.” Trembling, I fight for a quivering breath. “I’m a professional bad person.”
Rubbing my arm, he murmurs, “And what do you think I am?”
So much more than he has ever dared to believe.
