Fuck this.
“You got something to say, use your words.”
He opens a drawer, grabs a pair of joggers, then slams it shut. Completely ignoring me.
My eyes narrow as I close my laptop. “I’m not a fucking mind reader. Talk. Now.”
“Go to hell.”
I snort. “Where do you think I came from?”
He scoffs, then walks back into the bathroom, slamming the door again. The blanket bunches in my fists. God, I want to kick that door in, make him tell me what’s pissing him off. But I know what it would do to him.
This is driving me fucking insane.
When the shower starts, I get up and cross the room, then yank open the top drawer of his desk. Neat as hell—pens lined up, class notes stacked. Not what I’m looking for.
His bag’s next. Nothing but an empty water bottle, a protein bar wrapper, a textbook, and a tangled phone charger in the corner.
I exhale hard, standing, raking a hand through my hair. What the fuck is he so mad at? At least he told me it wasn’t about jerking me off. Thought maybe I’d pushed him or said something.
Wait.
Fuck.
Did he find the camera?
I walk to my dresser and shove a couple of cologne bottles aside until my hand closes on the one that matters. Same black glass as the rest, a cheap knockoff brand no one would give a second glance.
The cap comes off easily. The lens is still there. Ryan probably didn’t find it. If he had, he’d already have thrown me into a wall like he did when I touched his bear.
I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and tap the app for the feed. I scroll to past video recordings and watch. Each video plays on fast forward as I lean against the dresser.
Nothing.
Ryan comes out of the bathroom. Dressed.
So he can strut around half-naked before a shower, but afterward he makes damn sure he’s covered. He’s doing it on purpose. Just another thing I didn’t know about who I married.
Ryan Henneman is one passive-aggressive motherfucker.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Enough of this bullshit.”
He just grabs a book and lies on his bed reading it, as if I didn’t just say something.
My teeth grind, fingers digging into my bicep. “Keep this up, see what happens.”
He turns and glares at me. “Thought we agreed you’d stop with the threats.”
“You’re fucking throwing a temper tantrum. I asked what the fuck I did. You said it wasn’t about what happened. Yet, you won’t fucking tell me why you’re angry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, not good enough.”
“Too bad.” He goes back to reading his book.
“Such a disrespectful—”
