Page 93 of The Devils They Are
"Shit. Bexley?"
Still dressed in her shorts and sports bra, Bexley is hunched over on her side. At first, I think maybe she's passed out from the fight. But as I step closer, an invisible hand claws at my throat, choking me.
Silver handcuffs catch my attention, one end wrapped around the leg of the desk, pinning Bexley in place.
Her head lifts slowly, peering over at the doorway with swollen cheeks and blood-shot eyes. "What do you want? Come to gloat?"
My initial relief is short-lived at the cold, harsh tone. Dropping to my knees beside her, I cringe at the dark bruise on her cheek, along with the cut above her brow that's congealed with dry blood. It looks like a streak of blood had dripped down her face from the fight, but it stops on her cheek bone, seemingly washed away by fallen tears.
"What the fuck happened?" I demand.
Bexley tries to sit up but is immediately pulled back down by the shortage of chain. "Why don't you ask your friend?" she spits out, hurt evident in her voice.
Shaking my head, I force her to meet my eye. "I'm not playing these games again, Bexley. I'm not a mind reader. Tell me what's going on."
I wait for the cold reaction, the dismissal like what she had done previously when I confronted her the night after we first had sex. But instead, she sighs, animosity vanishing from her face to make room for exhaustion.
"Hunter."
I recoil as if I've been slapped. "Hunter did this?"
Bexley smiles sadly. "Of course, he did. He knows about us, doesn't he?"
"What?" I gawk. "I haven't told him anything."
"Well, he knows."
Her voice is barely above a whisper, confirming my worst fear. If Tai figured it out, then perhaps I was wrong to assume that Hunter wouldn't. This is my fault. In attempting to keep our…whatever it is…secret, I didn't stop and think of the consequences if he found out.
Hunter was already mad that I entered into a truce. Hell, he hates Bexley with a passion. Even before she glued his ass to a desk, he despised her. But we've been friends for so long, he'd never punish me for it. No—he'd want to make a statement, unleashing fury on her.
"I'm so sorry," I murmur sincerely.
Bexley shrugs dismissively. "Have I missed it?"
"Missed what?"
"Mom's funeral."
I swallow, wondering if I should play dumb or drown her in empathy. But Bexley is so similar to me, I know that's not what she needs.
"No, you haven't," I tell her. "It doesn't start for another hour."
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my Swiss Army Knife, jabbing a pointed end into the keyhole of the cuffs. With a bit of force and manipulation, I eventually manage to jam the lock, releasing the cuffs.
Flinging them aside for her, I offer Bexley a hand. To my surprise, she takes it, trembling as she slowly pushes to her feet.
Seeing her shaking body, I quickly take off my black hoodie I had slipped on when I finished my run. I drape it around her shoulders, and once her arms are in, I zip it up.
"Thanks," she says softly, unable to meet my eyes.
"Are you going to ask how I know?"
The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. I don't know why, but I want her to interrogate me. It's not normal to know the things I do about her, and even though most people would say I'm a fucking stalker or psychopath, I want her to know that I follow the events of her life—but we won't get into the reasons why.
Bexley shakes her head. "I assume you just find out everything to hold power. After all, if I was going to ask why you know the details of her funeral, I should probably start with the obvious question of how you came to have her belongings."
True. She raises a valid point.
