Little Liar: A Dark Taboo Romance (The Web of Silence Duet Book 2)

The smell of strawberries fills my senses as I rouse from my sleep.

There’s tangled hair all over my face, limbs spread over me, a leg hooked around my own, and a gentle hand resting on my chest. For a split second, I think I’m still dreaming and in a memory from when Olivia used to sneak into my room when we were teenagers. I’m still in that place I used to go to when I was in my cell, alone, pretending Olivia was asleep beside me, talking to me about our future.

We were going to get married. Have kids, if she really wanted them. We were going to go on vacations and find careers we loved. As long as we had each other, no one else mattered. We were a unit. A strong fucking unit that would disintegrate when someone interrupted my thoughts.

I wasn’t losing my mind like the guards had said. I was latching on to memories of her to keep myself sane. All the times we snuck into each other’s rooms played like a broken record in my head. The prison guard overheard me talking to Olivia—the imaginary version of her who smiled and kissed me while we lay in bed together for hours. They heard me arguing with myself, begging no one while I dropped to my knees, crying, and asked Olivia to forgive me.

Tears that no one in the world would ever see but her.

They thought I was insane, and I was sent in for further evaluation on my ASPD diagnosis. All that came back was that I had depression, and I was given more call times and an extra visitation slot, but everyone who tried to call or visit, I didn’t agree to see. My parents hated me, and I only wanted Olivia there. I didn’t need to see any of the fake assholes.

My friends vanished. Even Mason didn’t attempt to see me. My relationship with my sister died. And I lost my parents again. It was a miracle I didn’t lose my mind, commit myself to a noose, and end it all.

When she kept refusing my calls and not writing back to my hundred-odd letters, and when I sat at that table, waiting to see if she’d visit, another piece of me would shatter. I’m not sure how I’m able to lie with her in my arms now and even think I can be normal again. If I ever was.

During therapy—the four meetings I’ve attended so far since being released—they try to talk about my childhood. They ask questions based on what they’ve read in my report.

Do you still think about your biological family? Do you remember what happened to you? Do you get nightmares? Can you remember the day you nearly killed your adoptive father?

Regardless of what went down with us, I still saw him as my dad. Biology or not. Jamieson Vize raised me, not the guy who gave up and left me with the woman who birthed me.

I sometimes remember her face. I know it’s probably a made-up image, since she died when I was young. She had long blonde hair that was almost yellow, bright red lipstick, and smoked far too many cigarettes.

The therapist always pushes for me to talk about her.

It’s like he can hear her telling me that I’m weak and useless and weird and fucked up. He can see the abuse I suffered. Hear me crying for my mom and dad when I was a kid.

Am I supposed to say I had an awesome childhood and that I miss my real mother? That my father should have taken me with him when he threw himself off a bridge?

If I still had them, I wouldn’t have met Olivia. No one could save me but her. She’s the only person in the world who understands me, even when my voice is locked away and I struggle in every aspect of communication—no matter how many times she’s called me it, she doesn’t think I’m a freak.

I’m not normal. I know that. My mind isn’t the same as hers, or any of the people I grew up with. Even some of the inmates I bunked with before I was isolated thought I was either a lunatic or schizophrenic.

Everyone says it. I’m sick, depraved, wrong, yet she loves me anyway. These assholes who seem to assume to have me figured out are clueless. Always thinking they know me best, asking me things like I’m a helpless child. They wouldn’t know the first thing about what goes on in my head. Every corner of my mind is filled with a girl named Olivia.

I blink a few times, the haziness vanishing when my fingers run through her dark strands, bringing them to my nose and inhaling.

That same delicious scent of strawberries fills my senses. It’s been the same since we were kids. She has no idea how calming it is to me.

And she’s real this time.

Olivia really is in my bed, clinging to me like I’m going to disappear. She’s not running from me. No parents are knocking at the door and making us break away and hide. Society isn’t keeping us apart and telling us it’s wrong to be together. We’re just two adults, cuddling, happy, and I’m fucking terrified something bad is going to happen, putting an end to the joy I feel swelling in my chest.

I want to be happy so fucking much, but I don’t know how to be.

Her contractual obligation to marry that dickhead Xander still looms over us, but it’ll pass. He doesn’t even know Olivia and has no reason to expect her to run to him. His family is rich, way richer than the Vizes.

Money—it’s all Mom cares about. To the point she’d sell her own daughter for power.

Maybe I should kill her, right after I strangle Xander and leave his body for his family to find, my name carved into his forehead.

With all the security around him, and the fortress of an old orphanage he lives in with his elitist family, I’m nervous for the first time. Because if he does come for her, and if he successfully gets her, I won’t know how to get her back.

I might lose her.

“Your heart is beating so fast all of a sudden,” Olivia whispers, placing a gentle kiss on my naked chest. “Go back to sleep. It’s early.”

I half-smile and continue brushing my fingers through her freshly dyed hair. She did it to get rid of the blonde she was forced to have. There are still golden waves throughout since she trusted me to get the back, and, shockingly, I don’t know how to use fucking hair dye.

I want to call her bossy, but when I feel overwhelmed, I fall over my words. I’m still learning, and since we’ve been in bed for nearly a week, I haven’t gone to any of my appointments, despite her arguing with me to do so.

We’ve barely gotten out of bed except to shower, dispose of the million condoms my sister made me wear, or to eat. She even stood in front of me and made me take my meds then kissed me as if she hadn’t done so for years. And there was that random hour she wanted to chase me in the woods yesterday, so I let her.

I even pretended to fight her off as she sucked my cock and bounced all over me.

She’s been stuck to my side, and I don’t hate the invasion. I love having her here, with me, in our bed, in our house.

Our life.

We’re so fucking close to having it all—but there’s something stopping us from getting there. There’s a weight, so fucking heavy, on my chest, and it’s not Olivia’s head as she falls back to sleep.

She’s worried about me. She woke up last night and found me talking and signing to myself in the middle of the bedroom. It took her ten minutes to get me back into bed by trying to prove she was real.

I don’t really remember. It was like an out-of-body experience—I’ve had it a few times. When I was in prison, when I watched Olivia, and a few times this past week.

Watching her relaxed face, I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, wondering how she’s going to put up with me. I’m a handful, heavy baggage she would be better off without, but the selfish part of me wants her to take it all on with me.

I don’t go back to sleep either. I can’t. My mind is against me today. Sometimes I can block it out, and other times, I struggle and it’s an effort to even drag air into my lungs without needing to make sure I know where Olivia is at all times.

When she wakes again, she blinks her pretty little eyes and watches me. Her fingers trace my jawline, and I press my cheek into her palm, as if I’ve not been attached to her almost constantly since she chose me.

“Can we talk about us yet?” she asks timidly. Her voice is a little shaky.

She’s been asking nearly every day for us to have “the talk” and I’m completely against the pointlessness of it.

Against everything within me telling her to drop it and just go with the flow, I nod once.

“What are we doing?”

I wrap my arms around her, hugging her to my side. Isn’t it obvious what we’re doing? We’re cuddling in bed. But apparently that doesn’t mean shit to her given the way she’s looking at me.

“You were released from prison after eight years and then you stalked and kidnapped me. You tortured me, and then you let me go. I only came back a week ago. I feel like we need to really talk about what our plan is.”

My nostrils flare, my jaw tensing as her fingers trace my skin.

Fine, I sign. But I don’t see the point in discussing it. You’re mine now, and there’s nothing anyone can do to take you away from me. I’d need to be dead, and I’d still haunt your ass and fuck you.

“I’m serious,” she says with a sigh.

So am I.

“Can we take baby steps with everything?”

No.

Her chest rises and falls on another sigh. “Malachi.”

The way she says my name has me gulping.

Her nose wrinkles as she sits up, straddling me. “I’m going to suggest something.” Her fingers splay over my chest, over my instantly sore heart. “You aren’t allowed to get mad.”

Which means I’m going to lose my shit, but I grit my teeth and take a deep breath.

What?

“But it means you need to let me go back to work without arguing with me to stay in bed every morning.”

You already said you were going back even though I said no, I sign. You’re lucky I’m not putting you back in the basement.

“That’s technically kidnapping.”

Not my first time.

Her eyes narrow on my hands—she’s been desperate to hear me talk every second, but sometimes I’m still not comfortable using my voice. “I’m not going anywhere. Whether I live here or not. Why do you keep thinking I’m not going to come home if I go to work or to see our parents?”

I raise a brow as an answer.

She tilts her head, her face softening. “What can I do to prove to you that I won’t?”

“Y-You don’t exactly have the gr-greatest track record with f-fucking me over.” Then I sign, And I don’t trust you.

I’m trying to be as honest as possible. Yeah, she chose me, but it took her over a decade to do so. It’s only natural for me to be unsure and insecure and worry when she’ll leave me again.

Even when Abigail or Anna call, I get nervous—they’ll want to go out for dinner or to meet up before the latter gives birth.

As much as I want to stop being a paranoid asshole and enjoy having her here with me, the idea of her doing something as simple as going to work makes me itchy. I can’t stop her. I won’t. But I want to lock the door and throw away the key, to cuff her to the bed and never let her see her friends again.

If I tell her this, she’ll say I’m toxic and claim it won’t work. And she’s not wrong, so I don’t say the words flying around in my head—I can’t have her running from me again. I have no idea what I’ll do this time if she does.

Probably burn her work building down and kidnap her again. This time, I won’t let her go. I’ll make the world think she died and keep her hidden forever.

She kisses me, her hands on my face, pulling me closer as she sucks on my bottom lip. “Get out of your head,” she whispers. “I love you.”

Olivia has messed with my head since we were teenagers. I love her, but I don’t trust her. So fucking sue me if I want to keep her shackled to my side.

Her lips flatten, and she runs her fingers through my hair. “I’m going to kiss you again, and then I’m going to shower and go to work. I’m not going anywhere else. I promise. You can drive me there and pick me back up if you’re worried.”

I don’t want you to run away from me again.

Her lips thin, and her eyes drop. “I’m sorry.”

Was this what you wanted to talk about? You going to work?

“Can you use your words?” she asks. “Please?”

I don’t want to use my voice.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I just…”

Her eyes travel to the tank in the corner of the room, and she shivers. I know she’s thinking about having my pet on her body again and hating the thought.

I’ve yet to name my pet. Rex and Spikey were no-brainers, but this one… I’m not too sure.

Olivia has fear in her eyes—I’ll squash that emotion from her eventually.

When she looks back down at me, worrying her lip, I know I’m going to hate what she wants to talk about. She’s nervous, which makes me feel sick, even though she’s completely naked and sitting on me.

“I do love you,” she starts, and my heart is beating so much faster than what would be considered healthy. I think it might blow through my chest with anxiety—at least my blood will paint her beautiful face and give me one last wonderful view. “I don’t remember a time I haven’t loved you, but I want to go back to the start.”

I stare at her. I’m not following. She wants to… what?

Go back to the start?

What?

Instead of asking what the fuck she means, I just keep my eyes on hers and wait for her to elaborate on her ridiculousness. She either hit her head during one of our rougher sessions, or she’s caught my illness and she’s more delusional than me.

Her shoulders fall. “You’ve never taken me on a date before.”

My brows furrow further. “What?”

“We’ve never dated. We’ve never tested whether we’re compatible. What if we’re trauma bonding? Two adopted siblings with shitty backgrounds, forced to grow up together. What if you don’t really love me and we’ve just been latching on to one another since we were kids?”

I sit up, keeping Olivia in my lap. “Don’t,” I force out, holding her hips and shaking my head. “Please don’t.”

“Can we at least try it?”

I haven’t done anything wrong, I sign when words get stuck in my throat.

“I know you haven’t. You’ve been amazing. The fact you’re even entertaining me in your bed means the world to me after what I did to you.”

Our bed, I sign.

Her bottom lip wobbles. “Ask me on a date, take me for dinner, make me feel special, and drop me off at my apartment at the end of the night.”

Drop her at her apartment? What the fuck is this?

I shake my head. “No.”

“Please, Malachi.”

Why are you doing this? We’ve been fine.

Olivia must be trying to ruin my life. Why would we strip everything back? We’ve been all over each other. She told me she loved me. She’s kissed me every morning, and we have an entire life of memories.

Technically we did go for dinner once when we were younger, and we didn’t last ten minutes before I told her to run. Doesn’t that count?

She flattens her lips and looks away. “Every date I’ve been on has been arranged by Mom. I’ve never had any control. If I said no, she threw it in my face that I owed her for saving me. She even forced me to have a boyfriend while you were locked up.”

A boyfriend I’d like to remove from existence—I even saved him a burial spot in the yard with the rest, but I continue listening, even as her eyes brim with tears.

“I’m not asking to end things. I just want to go back to the start. Not as Malachi and Olivia Vize, two people who ended up falling for each other. I want to be Malachi and Olivia, two people who have chemistry and compatibility and love and everything we missed growing up.”

We have all those things. I don’t understand. Is this her excuse to leave me? We’ve fucked around since she got here—maybe she’s bored now?

Why do I feel like I’m going to vomit?

“I never got the chance to do it with you before,” she adds, sniffing as her breaths become messy. “I’ll even let you kiss me on our first date, and there’s a rule against that.”

My little sister has always been a product of her environment, and she’s trying to take control of her life. I understand why, but what I don’t get is why she needs to do this with me.

For one, I don’t know how to take someone on a date.

And two, no.

My silence is her answer. We aren’t going back to the start. Olivia isn’t leaving my side. We live here together. We have a future. We love each other. I even offered her the chance of a family though I despise children.

I’ve lost count of how many times my cock has been inside her over the last week. I’ve woken up to blowjobs, and she’s woken up to me between her legs. We’ve cuddled, kissed, and talked for hours.

Going on a date is pointless.

She tries to climb off me, and I tighten my arms around her waist to stop her. “Don’t,” I say again, but I can see the light leaving the eyes that have been staring at me all week. I’m snuffing out her happiness, and I hate myself for it. “You…” I stop, gulping. “You want to be normal.” My arms tighten, and when my lips move and no words come out, I let go of her and sign, I don’t know how to be normal for you.

“You are exactly how I want you to be,” she says, grabbing my face and kissing me, still leaving me more than confused. “Forget I said anything. I was just being stupid.”

She’s lying. She isn’t happy. I’m not making her happy.

What if we watched a movie tonight? Any movie. You choose.

Olivia tries to force a smile as she stands, the loss of contact making me grow cold. “Okay. We can do that. Come shower with me before I go back to work. I’ve been gone for too long.”

I hesitate at her blank tone, but as she glances over her shoulder on the way into the bathroom, she smiles.

My gaze drops to her ass before I jump to my feet and follow her.