Chapter 21 – Genevieve
GENEVIEVE
Rhys is in the bathroom, and my hands are shaking so damn badly I can hardly get my dress off.
As it is, I hear seams tearing. Not that it matters.
It’s ruined. But I need it off. I need it off right this second.
It has that man’s blood on it. The blood that splattered from his neck.
This morning I got attacked on the street, and now this.
How is this happening, but more importantly, what am I supposed to do about it?
I can’t live out here like this. I’ll be dead by tomorrow.
Tonight I went to dinner by myself. It was a pretty place, and I felt beautiful in my dress with my hair done, and the bartender handed me a menu and talked to me about specials. It was incredible. I felt… free. Alive. Real.
I ordered a drink and food, and a man sat beside me and flirted with me.
Only he didn’t flirt the way Rhys did. I could see it in his eyes.
There was no warmth there. I never felt ice race up my spine when I was with Rhys.
I never felt that pang of unease or warning in my gut.
Even after he told me he was dangerous and his charm was insincere.
Odd, perhaps, but still. The moment this guy sat beside me at the bar, somehow, instinctively, I knew I was his purpose.
He was too… instantly attentive. There was no meet-cute moment. He noticed me from the start and zeroed in.
I tried to shake it off. I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid or crazy. I was still thinking about Rhys, which I knew was insane.
But the moment he opened his mouth and started asking me questions, that was it.
I ate quickly, got the check, paid, and tried to leave despite his protests to stay.
Then he followed me out, and I knew I was going to have to escape him somehow, and I didn’t rule out the possibility of using the gun hidden in my bag if necessary. That is until he told me he’d kill me if I tried to get away from him and jabbed the gun into my hip.
When I saw Rhys coming up behind us, my heart did something odd. It was beating fast already. But this was different. This was knowing I was going to be okay and yet knowing I might never be again.
The dress hits the floor, and I run the towel along my body, smearing the white cotton with red and streaking it across my skin.
It’s everywhere. All over me. I need a shower.
I need to wash the residue of his blood off.
It’s on my hands and legs from when I pulled the dress off, and I can feel the wet stickiness on my back and the backs of my legs.
It’s all over me. Wet and dry and crusty and oh my god. I’ll never get it all off. It’s in my hair. Strands of gold are now strawberry and pink.
My vision sways, crackling at the edges. I don’t want his blood touching me.
I strip out of my bra and underwear, but they have blood on them too, and how did that happen? I have to get it off. I can’t breathe with it all over me. Or am I breathing too much? I think I’m breathing too much.
“Rhys,” I call out, frantic and frazzled.
“Another minute. I’m getting cleaned up. I’ll be right out.”
“I don’t have another minute. Either hand me a towel or don’t, but I’m coming in, and I’m naked.”
“What?” he replies as I open the door.
He didn’t lock it, thank god, and I burst through and turn on the shower. I don’t care if he sees me naked. I don’t care if he’s annoyed I came in. I don’t care if the water is cold. I have to get this blood off me.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his gaze on me as I step into the shower and close the glass door. I squirt ten pumps of body wash into my hands and lather it up, scrubbing myself vigorously.
He’s moving outside the shower, but I don’t look to see what he’s doing. I don’t care. My mind is racing, and my hands are shaking, and I’m breathing so much or not enough because there are spots dancing around my eyes.
I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I can’t get the blood off.
It’s worse now. The suds are pink and red, and oh god, it’s dripping from my hair onto my thighs.
The water is so red, and I need the water to be clear and clean me.
I gasp out a curse and pound the side of my fist into the shower wall.
Okay. I can do this. I get more soap and go after my hair, but it’s not shampoo. I meant to get shampoo and not soap.
The shower door opens, and before I know what’s happening, I’m spun around and hauled into a hard, warm chest. Tremors and sobs take hold, infuriating me. I don’t want to cry. I just want this fucking gone.
I beat my fist into his hard shoulder. “Get off me!”
“Calm down.”
“No!” I’m so fucking mad right now, I need a new word for it. Livid. Enraged. Seething. I don’t know. Nothing feels like enough. I want to set fire to the world. I want to burn everything down.
“Shh. I’ve got you, baby,” he says soothingly. “Turn around. I’ll help. I’ll get the blood out. I know what I’m doing.”
He likely does. He killed that man so quickly. So easily. Just a simple slice of his knife, and the guy died.
“I hate you so much. So fucking much.”
“I know. I’ll get the blood out. It’s okay.”
I turn around and close my eyes because even though my thoughts are chaotic and fragmented, I’m also aware of the fact that I’m naked in the shower with Rhys, who’s also naked.
I must say this aloud because he says, “I won’t take advantage of you.”
That’s good to know. I don’t trust him, but good to know.
“Panicking women aren’t exactly my kink.”
I don’t know what that means, but I assume he’s saying he’s not interested. Good stuff. Maybe. I don’t know. Is it a bad thing when a killer isn’t attracted to you? Rhys is a killer.
“I am attracted to you. If you turn around right now and look down, you’ll see that. Despite the blood. Despite the panic. Despite you hating me. I’m very, seriously attracted to you.”
My eyes pinch tight. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t care. I shouldn’t care. I’m covered in a dead man’s blood, and I’m wondering why the killer isn’t attracted to me. I’m sick. I don’t like what he’s done to me.
“I don’t like what I’ve done to you either.”
That hurts, and it shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Like everything else right now. “I hate you so much, Rhys.”
“That’s not how I meant it, princess. And my real name isn’t Rhys.”
“What?” shoots from my lips, and I try to turn around, but he stops me with his hands on my shoulders before they return to my hair, shampooing all the blood out. I was so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t realized he was doing that.
“Me telling you that wasn’t an invitation for you to face me. Don’t turn around. I’m trying to be selfless for once. It’s a stretch for me, I promise, so stay as you are.”
I blink against the suds and water that’s no longer running pink while I focus on the white tile of the wall. “What’s your real name?”
He’s quiet for a long moment before he says, “Ferrin. My name is Ferrin Morgan, but I haven’t used that name since I left Ireland. Then I became Rhys Stephan.”
My brows furrow. “Why?”
He moves me until I’m in the water and the suds run down my body and get washed away.
“Because Ferrin Morgan was a poor child who had a drunk, abusive father and a depressed mother who took her own life before he ended up in a different country in a horrible orphanage. Rhys Stephan was a thief. A brilliant one. He was charming and learned quickly, and women loved him. He was the hero in my favorite book, and I wanted to be him more than anything. He was limitless.”
“So you became him. A jewel thief. An outlaw.”
“Yes. Notorious. Infamous.”
I see.
But as his hands massage conditioner into my hair, I remember something and spin around on him without warning or caring if he stops me. I glare up into his pretty green eyes before I punch him straight in the stomach.
He oomphs and doubles over, one hand going to the wall for support, the other banding around his stomach. He’s naked, but I only catch a small glimpse of his… penis, but right now I’m too mad—there’s that useless word again—to care.
“What the fuck was that for?” he grunts, his accent thicker, though I still can’t tell if it’s Irish or American.
“You son of a bitch. This is all a ploy. You killed him so you could get me and win the prize.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You texted with my mother!” I shout and shove him back so I can slap his face.
He doesn’t hit me back or come at me with aggression.
Instead, he captures and holds my shoulders at an arm’s reach with a firm grip I can’t fight.
Fucker. I point at him. “You know my mother. You’re after a tiara, and that’s why you came back for me, if you even left at all.
Was that what the man was after too? What you killed him for? ”
He stares down at me, a hard glint in his eyes. “What exactly did your mother tell you?”
“Fuck you! I’m not telling you anything!
You knew my mother. This entire time, you knew her.
You son of a bitch.” Hot, vengeful tears burn me.
“You warned me, and I didn’t listen because you made me feel safe with you.
You told me you wouldn’t hurt me. That you’d keep me safe, and you lied.
You played me for a fool. You’re worse than all of them. ”
He doesn’t soften. If anything, he grows firmer. “Genevieve, I’ll explain everything to you. I swear I will. Tell me what she said to you.”
“She sent me a picture of your text messages with her. You know, the ones where you talked about deflowering and killing me if you didn’t get the tiara. How do you know her? What is this tiara?”
His hands drop from my shoulders, and his eyes hold mine, eerily calm as water and steam surround us. “Princess Desta’s tiara.”
I wondered. I questioned. But I didn’t know for sure. His telling me that is like a bullet to my chest.
“Why—” My throat thickens, and I try to swallow, but it’s not working. I settle on clearing my throat instead. “Why does my mother have it?”
He’s stock still, watching me carefully. “She doesn’t. Or at least she claims she doesn’t.”