Black Knight (Royal Elite #4) by Rina Kent

I freeze midway of pocketing my mouthwash. Shit. He saw it.

He shouldn’t have seen it. Why the hell did he see it?

Or the better question is, why didn’t I close the door?

Oh, I know why. I was in a hurry to lose the calories I gained from those avocados and meet Mum’s requirements so she doesn’t ship Kir away.

And I may have been rattled since I met this same arsehole outside my house and was forced to ride in his car earlier.

Me, in Xander’s car. I might have been too stunned all the way to remember anything about the journey.

“I just had an upset stomach,” I speak with a confidence I don’t feel.

Last summer, I was hitting rock bottom and Dad suggested I go on a spiritual retreat; he said it helped him when he needed clarity. I didn’t want to go, because of Kir, but when he said we could go as a family, I agreed. The trip consisted of Kir, Dad, and me. Mum had work – as always.

While we were there, I got to meet a lot of spiritual people from all sorts of religions, and although their beliefs didn’t interest me a lot, their life philosophies did. So much, I’m actually planning to visit that mountain in Switzerland again.

Back then, a Buddhist said that even if I’m not confident, I have to think of my goals and if need be, fake that confidence.

I call it, fake it until you make it.

One day, I won’t look in the mirror and practice how to talk, walk, or smile. One day, confidence will come naturally to me.

That day sure as hell isn’t today, so all I can do is continue to fake it.

“Do you always have upset stomachs?” he asks with almost a sympathetic tone.

Almost, because he’s faking it, too.

Xander’s mirroring my fakery and using it as a weapon against me in his dickhead style.

“Yes.” I don’t dare stare back or in the mirror, where I’ll find his eyes trying to dig a path into my soul.

No one needs to find a path to there, especially not him.

I don’t want him of all people to see the mess hidden underneath all of this.

He broke me, and he doesn’t get to witness the chaos left behind.

“That must be why you always carry the mouthwash, then.”

“Yup.”

“Funny, because I almost think you do that to hide your vomiting habits.”

My fingers tremble, but I don’t stop to let his words get to me. Xander might not have fat-shamed me, but he’s a bully. He laughed in my face, he mocked me, and he turned my life to hell like everyone else.

When I decided to stop being a secondary character in my life, it also meant not letting him get under my skin or see me at my lowest.

“Funny, because that’s none of your business,” I mimic his tone.

“You think it makes you prettier? Skinnier?” He laughs, the sound hollow and harsh in the silence of the bathroom. “You can’t hide behind layers of makeup, no matter how much you try to. If you think otherwise, then you need some awareness pills.”

I hit the tap closed harder than needed as I try to control my breathing. His words are like tiny needles getting under my skin and puncturing the veins one by each bloody one.

“I told you,” I grind out through my teeth. “It’s none of your damn business.”

A strong hand wraps around my wrist and I yelp as I’m yanked back so hard, the mouthwash bottle clinks against the lavatory and settles at the bottom of it.

My heart thunders so loudly, I’m surprised it doesn’t follow the bottle and sink somewhere.

He’s…touching me.

Xander has his hands on me. Those same long, lean fingers that are always lost in his hair or wrapped around a joint are now on my wrist.

Oh, God.

Xander’s skin is on mine.

Whoa. What the hell? Is it supposed to feel this overwhelming? It’s only skin against skin. Flesh to flesh. Anatomy.

But it’s not just any skin. It’s his skin.

Xander’s.

Before I can get my mind to concentrate on that fact, he yanks my pullover up my wrist. The same wrist he was staring at earlier.

The wrist.

Shit.

I try to pull away from him, but he pins me against the marble edge of the lavatory, making the cold surface dig into me. He holds my other hand behind my back, disallowing me from moving as his punishing eyes study the marks on my skin.

My gaze strays away, not wanting to see how he looks at me, at that part of me no one should see. Even I don’t like seeing it.

The cut marks are engraved in my head without having to glance at them. They’re messy, but not that deep. Severe, but not deadly.

I was a failure even at that. None of it is elegant and pretty. It’s all a big fucking mess.

“I suppose this is none of my business either.” His voice is light, calm, as if he’s not staring at the most shameful part of me.

How can he manage to make me hate myself by just looking at me? Why does he have that power?

He shouldn’t.

He left me.

He didn’t want to forgive me.

What right does he have to stare at me with those disapproving eyes as if we’re still friends? As if my wellbeing matters?

“It isn’t.” My tone is biting, translating all the frustration bubbling inside me. “You said it yourself that day, we’re strangers and should pretend we don’t know each other, even if we cross paths, right? So be a stranger and leave me the hell alone.”