Page 27 of Stolen Rebel

Playing a double life is exhausting.

“I came to bring you good news but then knocked you on your arse and made you cry.”

I give her another watery smile. “It’s not you. They’ve been brewing.”

A frown pinches her features, and her blue eyes turn even more sympathetic. “You haven’t cried since you got here?” She squeezes my hand on my thigh. “You’re doing better than I did. You’re also far calmer. Girl, I was raging. But it was exhausting, too. Staying calm is probably a better way to approach this.”

If only she knew…

She doesn’t offer anymore information, and knowing Liam, even if I ask her a question, she won’t be allowed to either. So I simply wait.

Once the wave of emotion passes, she looks me in the eye. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

Yes.

“No. I’m just scared. I thought he’d send me home by now once he realized I wasn’t this Rowan-Rebel person. I mean, what’s with the two names? I just have one. Erin. And I’m homesick.” My cheeks heat. “Turns out I have a penchant for the finer things in life. I think I’m allergic to his cheap prison sheets.” I scratch my arm to prove a point. Let her see soft. Soft gets underestimated as weak, and being underestimated might just be the key to my freedom.

Her laugh is the one I heard downstairs. It’s melodic and rich. “I have his card to pay for your clothes. I’m sure we could stretch to some luxury sheets.”

“He just… gave it to you?” My pulse steadies. Could this be an unexpected opportunity?

The grin on her face is downright terrifying. “Not quite.”

Ah. So she took it. That makes me stupidly happy. “And towels. And maybe a lamp? It’s so bright in here. My ma, God rest her soul, would scalp me if she knew how much I was using the big light.” I thought about stealing Liam’s bedside lamp the other night, but I got kicked out before I could raid his stuff.

Sorcha laughs. Nothing’s as fierce as an Irish mammy when you use the big light. Or worse, commit the cardinal sin of leaving the immersion heater on. It’s been years and the childhood immersion trauma still lingers, clearly for Sorcha too.

She arches a brow, which makes me hold my hands up. “I promise I won’t use the lamp as a weapon, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Now, that’s definitely a thought to keep in my brain on the off chance his majesty lets me have a lamp.

“I can see why he calls you Rebel.”

My heart stutters, my body temp dips, but I hope I don’t react externally. “He doesn’t know me well enough to call me anything other than Erin. We’ve barely talked in the time he’s had me.” It’s not a lie, not to her. I don’t say in all the time he’s known me, just had me. And she’s shrewd enough that I think she catches it.

Shit.

She’s a smart one. Thankfully, there’s a knock on the door before any of the thoughts swirling in her expressive eyes come out.

“Either way. Let’s spend some of his money. Come in.”

The door swings open, and a flurry of activity, clothing rails, and bodies burst into my prison room like it’s nothing. The three staff members beam at both of us, and one of them quickly opens a bottle of champagne.

I look over at Sorcha who’s grinning at me as she accepts the flute from the middle-aged woman with perfect brows and a flawless face of makeup.

“How… how did they know what size to bring?”

Sorcha rolls her eyes. “He used an old dress of yours apparently.” She leans closer to me. “It won’t make a dent in his wallet, but it might make you feel better. Let’s buy some clothes.” She clinks her glass against mine before taking a long sip.

She’s right. It won’t break him, but it might be another crack.

The bubbles of the champagne tickle my nose as I drink and take in the set-up in front of me. A make-shift changing room has been put together with a tri-paneled divider, and the three women are ready to kit out my wardrobe. For what, I’m not sure.

No one will get to see any of it with me locked behind this fucking door, so I have no idea why I need anything other than the existing clothes he’s given me washed, but I play along because, if nothing else, draining his bank account of a few zeros will make me feel better. And it’s the first real thing he can’t ignore. Every dress, every pair of heels, every unnecessary luxury—it’s not indulgence. It’s pressure on his pain point. Me. A reminder that I’m here, and I’m still costing him.

“It’s not a spa, but it’ll do.” I give Sorcha a warm smile. I can tell she’s really trying to be nice to me, and I want her to know I appreciate it.

I hope he comes in later spitting nails about how much I spent. I hope it does break his bank. And despite the fact Erin dresses a little more conservatively and more boring that Rowan, I hope his jaw aches from clenching to stop it falling open at how fucking gorgeous I look in all my new clothes.

I’ll distract him with my cleavage and a soft smile, let him think that’s all I am. Then I’ll go for his jugular and tell him in no uncertain terms that I did not write that letter. Real or fake, he needs to know and believe that while it might have someone’s fingerprints on it, they aren’t mine.