All The Truths (Lies & Truths Duet #2) by Rina Kent

The world needs to stop and face me this time. People need to see me, not Rai or Reina, a Sokolov or an Ellis, but me.

Just me.

The person inside who’s barely holding on by a thread.

With a resigned sigh, I turn around and march over to where Asher sits on the bed.

My bed.

There’s something so intimate about that, and I don’t want to admit it right now.

I lower myself opposite him, with the plate between us. I place both my hands underneath my thighs so they don’t act out on any crazy ideas like reaching out to brush back that stray strand on his forehead.

“Now eat,” he orders.

God, this man and his authoritative streak. I wish I hated it.

If I did, maybe all of this would be easier. Maybe my entire body wouldn’t be on high alert with a full rush of adrenaline.

“I’m fine.” My stomach growls as soon as the words come out of my mouth.

Damn traitor.

“You were saying?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to eat, okay?” I pause. “Why did you bring me here? How did you find me anyway?”

“I followed you.”

I followed you.

Just like that. No explanation, no attempt at apologizing.

Who am I kidding? I’m starting to think Asher isn’t apologetic about anything.

He’s his own brand of atypical, not exactly a sociopath, but something similar. At times, it feels like he does care, but at other times, he completely eradicates that part.

“And why are we here?” I murmur.

“Because.” He takes a spoonful of what seems to be mac and cheese and places it in front of my mouth. “For the last time, fucking eat.”

I glare at him, tempted to throw the entire plate at his face, but that’s no excuse to waste good food.

Besides, I am hungry.

I try to take the spoon from him, but he keeps it away.

“Open your mouth.”

“I’m not a kid, Ash. I can eat on my own.”

“You lost your choice when you were acting like a brat.” He shakes his head with a sigh. “And it’s Asher, for fuck’s sake.”

My eyes cast downward. He’s right; I don’t have the right to call him that, to give him any nicknames or to let him feed me.

He’s not mine.

He’s Reina’s.

That’s why Old Reina always kept him at arm’s length and pushed him away. I can understand her thought process more clearly now.

“Are you going to open your mouth, or should I do it for you?” His eyes darken with malice, and I gulp at the punishing promise in them.

He’ll definitely make me, and I have no doubt that I won’t like my reaction to it.

I slowly part my lips. The spoon clinks against my teeth as he gently shoves it inside. My pulse rises in my throat and I barely chew before swallowing the mac and cheese. It tastes rich and strong, but I barely focus on that.

Oh, God. This is so intimate. I shouldn’t be doing it with Asher.

I reach out for the spoon, but he keeps it out of reach and forces me to eat from his hand.

There’s something changed about his expression, something curious and new.

Or maybe my brain is interpreting it that way after all I uncovered about the past and my identity.

Asher’s eyes keep darkening every time I wrap my lips around the spoon to swallow the pasta. His jaw ticks and he feeds me slower, as if savoring the moment.

The air thickens with tension, the scene taking an entirely different direction. It’s like he’s fucking my mouth instead of feeding me. At first, it’s with his thumb, and then it’ll be with his cock.

My cheeks flame at the thought. That’s not right to imagine—at all.

And yet, my thighs clench together. The leather of my skirt becomes too harsh against my heated skin and my T-shirt turns tight over my hardening nipples.

No.

I need to pull myself out of this trance.

“Are you going to tell me why we’re here?” I ask after swallowing another spoonful of the food.

“Mac and cheese was your favorite when you were younger,” he says, as if it’s the perfect answer to my question.

“Don’t many kids love it?”

“Not you.” He raises an eyebrow. “You used to feel peevy around it until I once dared you to eat it, and then you secretly fell in love.”

For a second, I think my heart will abandon me and stop beating. Is he talking about Reina versus me? “When was that? How old was I?”

“Right before your thirteenth birthday.” The spoon clinks against the bowl as he fills it. “Why are you asking?”

“Nothing.”

So it was me, not Reina. A strange sense of relief floods me. It’s so sudden and strong, I briefly close my eyes until it goes away.

My unfamiliarity with mac and cheese makes sense. Mom was Russian and never made it. I wasn’t exposed to the typical American life until I lived with Dad.

“What were you doing in that cottage, Reina?” His tone hardens like that time in the hospital when he asked me if I was running away from him.

“Searching for the truth,” I say, my eyes cast downward.

I can’t look at him, not when he thinks I’m Reina.

You’re an imposter.

You should die.

The gloomy cloud roams around my head like a halo, trying to swallow me inside and suck out my soul.