Page 91 of Twisting Beauty

“You and I both know that it didn’t, Liath.”

“I told you.” I held his gaze. “I’m Rua. You’re delusional. Move.”

I reached past him, my arm brushing his side, grabbing the door handle and pulling.

The door opened two inches before he leaned his back against it. It slammed shut with a bang, like a nail driving into my coffin.

“Gaslighting me?” He clasped a hand to his chest, the picture of wounded dignity. “I didn’t think you of all people would stoop so low.” He paused, his pale eyes steady on mine. “Given what’s in your file.”

Pure dread pooled at the base of my spine. I tried not to let my panic bleed out of my face.

He pushed off the door, closing the distance between us, forcing me to back up.

“We could always ask my father.” He tilted his head. “He’d be delighted to settle the question of who you are.”

The threat of Alistair punched into my chest. Everything in me contracted.

I held the reaction down and gave him a shrug instead. “If you want to bother him with something so ridiculous. All I see is a grainy photo of some girl that could be anyone and a paranoid brother.”

“Perhaps.” He took another step forward.

My back hit the wardrobe and he caged me in with his hands on either side of my face.

“If taken in isolation.”

He was close now. Close enough that the woodsmoke and dark warmth of him suffocated me, and the violins rose, low and fractured, pressing against the inside of my skull.

His gaze held mine. “But that Polaroid has your handwriting on the back. Not Rua’s.”

Shit. He was right.

With each item, the room had gotten smaller. The ceiling lower. The sheet knotted at my chest twisted tighter in my fist until my knuckles ached.

He leaned in even closer. “And your file at Magdalene has you claiming your real name is Liath Byrne.”

His hand dropped to the edge of the sheet, and without hurry, without asking, he pushed it up my thigh.

The air hit my skin and I gasped, the sound escaping before I could catch it. His fingers were warm against my thigh and a shiver moved through me before I could react with outrage.

He looked at the tattoo. At the Medusa staring up from my skin in the gray morning light.

“And this tattoo is a fake.” His thumb brushed the Medusa’s lips, causing a rush of heat up my leg. “Too new. There’s bleed on the fine lines.”

He let the sheet drop.

With each piece of evidence he’d listed, the room had gotten smaller. The ceiling lower. The sheet knotted at my chest twisted tighter in my fist until my knuckles ached.

He looked up at me, and the corner of his mouth pulled. “Paints a compelling picture.”

He had enough. He had more than enough for Alistair.

I was absolutely, catastrophically screwed.

“Where is Rua, by the way?” he asked, the question almost lazy.

I weighed it for a half a second. The truth was a match, and I had no idea what kind of fuel Lorcan was made of. Telling him his sister was dead, here, now, was a risk I couldn’t measure. Better if I lied. At least until I knew what he’d do with the truth.

“I don’t know.” The lie tasted ugly in my mouth.