River & Revenge

08 | the sly liar

R I V E R

     Not a hint of guilt on her face.

River scowled as he stared at the skinny shadow of Rosalyn. To his annoyance and relief, she was busy searching the cabinets for some antibiotics. He wanted her to hurry; the patches of violet on his skin were flaring with pain, and he couldn't present the sturdy facade much longer.

But unfortunately for him, she was bent on testing his thin line of patience with her slow movements. Her fingers were lazily hovering over the content, and he was confident she was doing it on purpose.

With a sigh, he let his upper body fall against the soft surface of the bed. His back ached at the point where the ceramic vase had clashed against moments ago, and with a short hiss, he prompted his body back up.

He chose to sit instead, his head hanging low between his parted thighs. He covered his face with his palms, a frenzy of afterthoughts running wild in his mind. Between the small space of his fingers, he saw Rosalyn sneaking him a sly grin.

Asking her was a bad idea, the worst fucking idea.

She stalked her way to him, the simple black sundress gave her more character than the flimsy red one ever did, but River wasn't going to confess that out loud. He had played his hands far enough by threatening her life once.

With a strange sense of pride, he believed he had humbled her.

She may have been desperate for air a couple of hours ago, but she would never be desperate for his attention again.

She kneeled before him with a cotton ball wedged between her fingers. Covered in a yellow opaque liquid, it looked like a nightmare for his bruises, and he tried his best to hide how much he hated pain.

She dabbed the soft cotton on his skin, and he clenched his fists on top of his thighs.

She pressed it harsher.

"Quit it," he barked, and she grinned.

"For a man so tough, you scream worse than a toddler." And if her sneaky glances weren't enough, he could now confidently acknowledge the shift in their dynamics. Asking Rosalyn for help was one of his worst heat-of-moment decisions, and soon he'd have to face the consequences.

"Quiet," he shot her a hostile glance, losing any sense of any caution that had left in him, "Unless you're ready to crawl back into that dirty water—"

"Do you want Ander to know you paid me to inflict those bruises?" Her voice was so quiet, it was almost a whisper.

River knew the game she was playing, but he also knew that along with revenge, she was battling her need for affection too. Her attempt to blackmail him was admirable, but she lacked the very first essence of playing the upper hand—confidence.

"Go ahead, tell him." As he predicted, she was caught off-guard.

"What?"

"If he believes you, I'll double that money." His thin lips stretched with a small slime, and she recoiled under his hardened gaze.

"He will believe me. He saw what a crazy man you are." He laughed in response and snatched the cotton away from her hands. 

The pain was killing him; Rosalyn had taken all her anger out while painting his body with bruises, yet he looked at her with pity. 

River's plan was in motion and so far on track. He could safely assume Ander didn't fuck things up with Jamie, which meant he knew about the evidence. Now, for him, River was innocent and even better. . . a victim. He could use that.