Page 13 of Cruel Deception
Too risky.
I don’t even have the first clue where his damn bike is, and I’m already about to piss him off. He’ll destroy me—literally and metaphorically.
I exhale shakily, dropping the phone onto the velvet sofa, silently praying he doesn’t text again.
The phone chirps.
My stomach lurches.Please, not him.I snatch it up, and my chest tightens at his words:Want more than a kiss from Mr. Hot?
The implication hits like a slap, crude and deliberate.
I’m not naive—I know what he’s suggesting.
My fingers fly across the screen, anger overriding fear. “I’m your brother’s fiancée. Again, the kiss was a mistake.” I hit send before I can overthink, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my throat.
I wait, breath held, for his reply.
One minute. Two. Nothing.
The silence stretched, cruel and loud. Was he pissed? Was he done? I told myself I didn’t care, but I did.
Especially because I had no idea where the hell his bike was.
Desperate, I dialed Nico.
“Hey, scarface,” he answers, his voice dripping with mockery.
“I need you to find the bike,” I say, cutting through his bullshit. “It was stolen. I need it by 5 p.m. tomorrow.”
“Oh, now you need me?” he teases, smug as ever.
“I’m not playing, Nico. It’s important.”
“Send me details, then,” he says, still half-laughing, like my panic’s a joke.
“I don’t have details—just the remote key. Will that work?”
“Should,” he says, finally sounding marginally serious. “Get it to me.”
I step outside, the mansion’s marble courtyard cold under my boots, and hand the sleek remote to a guard, instructing him to deliver it to Nico.
My stomach churns as I head back inside, Cassian’s text looping in my mind.Want more than a kiss?
The nerve of him, acting like I’m his to toy with.
It’s 6 p.m. the next day, and I’m pacing the overgrown backyard of Grandfather’s house, the air thick with pine and decay.
The sagging shed where I hid Cassian’s bike mocks me with its emptiness.
Nico’s sprawled against a gnarled oak, cigarette dangling from his lips, looking annoyingly unbothered.
He’s called every contact he has—legal, illegal, shady as hell—but the bike’s vanished. My nerves are frayed, my hands clenching and unclenching as the clock ticks closer to 7.
“Your dad’s loaded,” Nico says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Just get him to buy you another one. Why’re you freaking out?”
“Because it’s not mine,” I snap, my voice cracking with frustration. “I stole it.”
He chuckles, low and mocking. “Hope whoever you pissed off doesn’t come for you.”
