Page 77 of Stolen Rebel

I grimace. “I guess I wanted the whole truth before I did. In case I was wrong.”

“Utter shite. You chose not to. That’s on you.”

“Rebel, I⁠—”

“Don’t you fucking ‘Rebel’ me.” She stabs a finger at the door. “Get out.”

I shake my head slowly. “Not like this. Not leaving you like this thinking I’m some kind of a cunt for fucking you when I had this intel.”

She glares at me, all the progress we’ve made scattering like leaves in the wind. “Too late.”

Chapter 35

ROWAN

I haven’t slept. Rage fuels my every breath. And it’s taken all night to try to tamp down the white-hot fury that’s charging through my body. You’d think I’d be used to keeping my shit together by now. Five years of making myself small because a man told me I had to for my own safety… I’m a pro at compartmentalizing.

But sue me if I can’t quite box up all the rage when the man who betrayed me came inside my fucking body when he knew the fear I’d carried with me for so long was fake. Was put there by a master manipulator.

It feels like a brand. Like he stamped his ownership inside me before I knew the full truth.

I stay under the shower longer than necessary, scrubbing like I could erase the evidence of my own stupidity.

But no amount of suds can wash this away.

Unprotected sex with my ex. I shake my head as I rub the shampoo into my scalp under the scalding water.

I need to find my chill, to ease off the accelerator on the rage pedal and locate my inner ice queen.

Liam Mahoney knows rage. He lives rage; he’s comfortable with rage. I bet he’s downstairs waiting for me to scream and break shit.

I admit, it’s what I want to do. And I’d even contemplated slashing his tires or keying his car to make me feel better.

Ice. I need to be ice.

Rage is loud. Ice is lethal. And lethal is harder to punish, harder to understand, harder to predict. Liam needs to be on the back foot for a while because I’m stepping forward.

I draw in some slow and calming breaths while I towel off and braid my wet hair. I don’t want to be late for breakfast and risk everyone else not being there. I can probably keep my cool with a buffer—or buffers—but a one-to-one meal with Liam… there’s no guarantee I won’t slice his throat with a fucking bread knife and use his blood to butter my fucking toast.

Would his brothers try to stop me? Would they get to me before I did real damage?

Bastard. Who the hell does he think he is? Deciding what information I can and can’t have about my own situation? Keeping secrets from me until after he’s wet his dick?

Arsehole.

It’s painfully hard to compose myself as I walk downstairs to the dining room. To my overwhelming relief, Liam’s not the only one at the breakfast table. Shooting up some gratitude to the big man upstairs for saving me from murder before 8:00 a.m., I make eye contact with Sorcha and smile.

She must read something on my face, probably the heavy, black rings underlining my eyes from not sleeping. “Morning.”

“Morning, Sorcha. How goes it?”

Liam’s head snaps up from staring at his phone, a mug of coffee and plate of food untouched in front of him. I don’t look at him to see if he’s as tired as I am, if what he did last night kept him up like it did me.

Partly because I’m afraid if he is pale and bedraggled, my resolve will waver, and partly because there’s a sharp knife in front of him on the table, and the urge to stab him with it is increasing the closer I get to him.

“All good here. You?” Her voice is cautious, strained. She glances at Liam, then flicks her gaze to Patrick who almost imperceptibly arches an eyebrow and a shoulder in a half shrug, as if to say “No fucking clue.”

“Grand, aye.” I squeeze Darragh’s shoulder as I make my way toward the coffee. “Darragh.”