Page 93 of Problematic

Liv stepped back from the shelf and studied the angle, hands planted on her hips. Her face was flushed, jaw set, eyes too bright in the low bedroom light. She leaned toward the camera until her face filled the screen again. “If you’re watching,” she said, “which I’m not saying you are.” She stopped and swallowed. Her gaze flicked away, then back. More direct this time. “You don’t get to hide anymore.” She drew in a breath and exhaled shakily. “This is where I put it,” she said. “This is what you get. And if you want more . . .” Her cheeks flushed pink. She looked away like she despised herself for continuing.

Then she lifted a folded piece of paper and held it in front of the camera. Her handwriting filled the screen. SHOW ME YOUR FACE.

My heart stopped. The mark at my neck burned so sharply I clawed at it. Liv lowered the note and stared into the lens. “There,” she said, voice trembling at the edges. “Now we’re both uncomfortable.”

She was putting pressure on the one thing I couldn’t give her. My face was the line. My face wasn’t a mask. It was a life sentence. The second she saw me, the bond would finish what the Fates had started in my office lobby. It would slam into place inside her before she understood what it was she was choosing.

She thought she was asking for honesty, but she was begging for a cage with my name on it.

She crossed the room and disappeared through the bedroom door. A moment later, water started running. The shower.

I stared at the empty bed. I should turn the feed off. That would be decent, right? But fuck, this was too good, too tempting. She was finally playing the game like I’d hoped she would.

Before, watching had been theft. Now, it was invitation. A bad invitation, and a reckless one. One she was already regretting. I could read the nervous energy in her movements, the way she’d checked the camera three times before leaving, the way her voice shook.

But it was still her choice.

The shower cut off. My entire body went rigid. A minute passed, and the door opened. Liv stepped back into the bedroom wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt, all black and falling to mid-thigh. Her damp hair hung loose around her face, darker from the water, curling slightly at the ends. Her cheeks were pink from the shower. Her legs were bare.

She was beautiful this way, comfortable and honest. She crossed the room without looking at the camera.

Yes.

Fuck. Liv. She had to know what this was doing to me. What she was doing to me.

She climbed onto the bed on top of the comforter, careful and awkward, like casual had become impossible now that the room had an audience. She sat cross-legged at first. Then changed her mind. Stretched one leg out. Pulled it back. Adjusted her shirt.

She looked toward the bookshelf. Right at me. Her face did something complicated. Fear, defiance, embarrassment, and that bright little thread of curiosity I had no business wanting to tug at.

Then she grabbed the book from her nightstand. My annotated book. Liv opened to one of the tabs. She read and her mouth moved slightly on the words. I had noticed that about her already. When she was tired, she mouthed lines she liked. Not loud enough to hear, even if I had been in the room. Just enough to betray herself.

Her eyes tracked down the page. Then stopped. Her lips parted. Then she laughed. There was nothing overtly funny in that book. Which meant she had found one of mine.

Liv clapped one hand over her mouth. Then looked at the camera.

My smile spread slowly. She lowered her hand and glared at the lens.

“I’m not laughing at you,” she said, cheeks burning.

Liar.

I leaned back in my chair, every nerve in my body focused on the little screen. She looked back at the page. Read the note again. Her mouth twitched. Then she shook her head.

This woman was going to ruin me. Not because she did anything. That would have been simpler.

She read.

That was all.

She sat on her bed in that too-large shirt, bare legs shifting against the comforter, damp hair over one shoulder, eyes moving over the words I had left for her. She frowned at some. Rolled her eyes at others.

Then the scene in the book changed. Liv’s posture changed. Her shoulders tightened first. Then her knee drew up a little. Then her gaze flicked to the larger black box on her nightstand. The toy. She looked back to the book. Then to the camera.

No. Absolutely not. That’s not what this is about, Liv.

Then she looked away. Good girl, I thought, and nearly put my head through the desk. I could see how the combination was suggestive at a minimum, but Liv wasn’t the kind of girl to volunteer a show. No, she was shy, sweet.

She reached for the fucking box.