The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"Without you, I have nothing." His admittance vibrated with need. His thumb, a branding iron, scorched the outline of my lips. "You are my air, Olivia. No oxygen mask and no respirator can keep me breathing without you. Do not even think about anything, anyone, that could take that away. We are locked together until the reaper taps us both on the shoulder."

My spine tingled.

Honestly, I really wished that he would just shut the fuck up. If I were not pretending to be asleep, I would roll my eyes to the back of my head. To think, I used to fall for those lies.

"I lost you once," he admitted, the words he spoke raw and scraped. "I will not lose you again."

The irony of this one-way conversation bites like a rusty nail in my gut. I was right before. I was ready to walk away, a clean break from this twisted tangle of "us." I planned to escape, but I almost died instead.

Now, his pale face filled the sterile void, his empty promises and ominous threats a headstone to my failed mission.

Every breath he takes is a taunt of the life I nearly cut loose. The getaway car crashed into a barrier of reality, and the debris is all that's left of my stone-cold heart.

"Olivia." His voice was barely a breath against my lips. "Open your eyes. I need to see you before I leave."

"Ugh," I mumbled, peeling my face off the pillow like a slug emerging from a slimy coma. "Daniel?" The question dripped with faux concern as I bolted upright, the cold cotton sheet dropping to my waist like a discarded curtain. "What is it? Did something happen?"

Daniel uncoiled from the bed, the lines of his suit moulding to his lean frame. He towered over me, his gaze dipping beneath the surface and searching for any hint of unease.

"Were you dreaming?" He wondered, awaiting my response, and I shook my head. "No nightmares?"

Another shake of the head.

"What is the potion-powered progress report?" His drawl was tinged with scepticism, eyebrows arched high. "No shade on Mrs Mystic Mayhem, but her hocus-pocus did not exactly inspire Einstein over here." His amused smirk slipped when he perceived my confusion. "Mrs Ross? The con artist?"

"Oh, Sabina. No," I replied, as I had left all my purchases at Mac's bar on the night of the argument. "While her mannerisms might strike some as idiosyncratic, I find her observations and interpretations exceptionally insightful. I could benefit greatly from her tutelage."

"I understand; however, I respectfully disagree." His eyes, heavy with wonder and adoration, devoured every detail of my face. "That so-called psychic medium was accused of defrauding exploitation victims out of thousands of pounds by claiming to communicate with her deceased daughter. The case went to trial, but she was ultimately acquitted due to the lack of hard evidence."

The revelation took me aback. My acquaintance with Mrs Ross is limited, and though her temper may rival weathered footwear and her reprimands sting with surprising frequency, the notion of her involvement in fraudulent activity had never crossed my mind.

I held her in a certain mystique, attributing her eccentricities to a genuine talent for connecting with the departed and proficiency in the milieu of crystals and elixirs.

Either my perception required refinement, or my husband provided inaccurate information to shape my opinion of her.

"Innocent until proven guilty." My throat fought against the sting of dryness with a strangled gulp. "Sabina was not charged with impersonation. Therefore, I will not judge her. I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt."