Page 35 of Stolen Rebel

“Good. Oh, and Kai?”

“Yeah?”

“You have two days.”

He chuckles. “You’re all heart.”

I cut the call. Reflexively, my thumb traces the uneven ridge of my scar from temple to lip. For five years, I’ve used this mark to anchor my hatred. But if she didn’t write that letter or make that phone call, then this isn’t a badge of betrayal—it’s a brand on my face, my life, my heart left by a ghost.

Heart? What fucking heart? Except, since Rowan came back into my life, it’s like it’s been jumpstarted. Still stuttering, still finding a regular rhythm, but no longer dead.

It will be my undoing.

Despite leaving the deadbolt to Rowan’s room open, she hasn’t left it. Work is piling up, and if I don’t get my head out of my arse soon, Patrick will decapitate me. But despite the looming threat of my brother’s wrath, I’m outside Rowan’s room.

I grab the door handle, then pause. Honey not vinegar, remember? I knock.

“Come in.”

I push open the door. She’s dressed in loose-fitting dark blue jeans and a thick wooly, cable-knit jumper, sitting cross-legged on the bed, flicking through the book I ordered her to read. Still hasn’t given up then? The thought makes me inwardly smile rather than frown. With every small action, or inaction, she’s revealing who she really is.

“I’m taking Titan out for a walk. Would you like to come along?”

She blinks, the subtitles on her face screaming “What the fuck are you up to now?”

“Some fresh air will do you good. You’re too pale.”

“That’s the kidnapping, not the lack of Irish wind chill on my cheeks.”

There she is again. It’s like every hour that passes, another chip appears in her carefully constructed fake life, and it’s only been six days since I took her from that pub in London. Then again, it’s a well-known fact that people can’t keep up the pretense of being someone they’re not for very long, and that’s under normal circumstances. Add in five years of betrayal, a kidnapping, and being locked in a room with a bunch of strangers—and one former lover—and it’s little wonder the charade is crumbling.

Rowan’s a normal girl from a normal background. She isn’t built for subterfuge. It was one of many reasons I fell for her. She was different from the mafia wives and girlfriends I was used to being around. Apart from Sorcha, maybe. In another life, Sorcha and the Rowan I knew could be sisters.

Hmm… maybe letting those two spend some time together wouldn’t be a bad idea. Loosening the binds a little won’t make her too suspicious of me, but if I do a complete one-eighty and start being nice to her all the time, she’ll smell a rat.

Sorcha, on the other hand, can get her to lower her guard just by being Sorcha. I don’t have to let her in on my plan to use her to achieve my goal. Sorcha’s a social butterfly with a gazillion friends. One word from me, and she’ll gladly take Rowan under her wing. And those layers will melt away like that burgundy dress did from her skin the last night we fucked.

Christ, I have to stop thinking about her body in that fucking dress. These days, my dick is hard ninety percent of the fucking day. Okay, not ninety percent. I’d probably be dead or in the hospital, but it’s a fucking lot. Too much.

“Titan likes you. Come for her?”

A flicker of delight flashes across her face. Rowan always loved dogs, but she told me her parents wouldn’t let her have one when she was a kid.

“Okay.” It’s a muted response for my benefit. She doesn’t want me to think she in any way wants to spend time with me when she’s not forced to, such as mealtimes. It’s another lie. If Rowan didn’t write that Dear John letter or make that phone call, that means she didn’t set me up that night either.

If she’s telling the truth—and I’m not willing to entirely believe her just yet—then she wasn’t responsible for the scar on my face and the weeks spent in rehab. Something else made her run and cut off all contact with me, and I intend to find out what.

I wait while she laces up her boots and shrugs into a calf-length puffer coat. She leads the way downstairs, keeping a good two feet between us, like she’s afraid of getting too close. But the scent of Sorcha’s floral shampoo trails behind her. It’s wrong. It’s not what Rowan smells like. I’ve already sent Maeve to that specialty shop in Dublin to find the exact strawberry scent she used to use—the one that lingered on my pillows and skin for days. I won’t tell her I bought it. I’ll just leave it in her bathroom and wait to see if she chooses to smell like my Rebel again.

I put on my coat and whistle to Titan who comes bounding down the hallway, tongue lolling, and gives a loud bark.

“If you look any goofier, you’re getting retired. Stupid fucking dog. Some terrifying beast you are.”

She barks again, then nestles her head against Rowan’s hip, vying for attention. Rowan smiles down at her and immediately complies, stroking the top of her head, then bending down to give her a kiss.

Fucking lucky Titan. Dog deserves to be in a pie, especially if she’s going to suck up to every stranger we bring here. She fell for Sorcha after two point five seconds, too.

Women. They always stick together.