The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

A jolt of hysteria sent a white-hot spark through me as the stolen documents and illegitimate paperwork spilt haphazardly from my trembling hands. I pushed them back into their folders, the sharp edges digging into my fingers with each desperate shove, then looked for somewhere safe to hide.

My breath caught in my throat. In a sudden panic, I returned the scattered files and laptop to their rightful positions before hastily retreating underneath the bed. I moved with careful precision, being mindful to minimise any noise that could reveal my whereabouts.

The under-bed situation was hardly conducive to covert operations. A maze of cardboard boxes and storage containers choked the space, drastically restricting my movements and making my search for a comfortable position a near-impossible feat.

My impromptu yoga session was going poorly. Every time I tried to stretch or move, I ended up hitting my head on the base of the solid frame or getting stuck in an uncomfortable position. My flexibility—or lack thereof—was nothing short of embarrassing.

Talk about adding insult to injury.

Fight-or-flight—More like fight-or-faint—gripped my heart, pounding relentlessly against my chest as I lay still on the dusty floorboards.

Every muscle in my body tensed, ready to flee at a moment's notice. I had already been caught once snooping through this man's bedroom, and I could not bear the humiliation twice. Not to mention the wrath he would unleash upon me if he discovered me here.

I hid quickly and quietly in my preferred location just as a pair of black military-style boots appeared through the gap at the bottom of the bed.

It was one thing to slink into this room during a party when people were stumbling around and not paying much attention, but breaking into someone's home while they were absent was a serious violation of privacy.

If caught, I could face serious consequences, possibly even prison time.

Why did I think this was a good idea again?

"I haven't spoken to Colt in weeks." Royce's rich and resonant baritone voice sent prickly goosebumps dancing across my skin. He paced back and forth like a restless panther confined to a small space. He was on the phone with someone. I could hear a muffled voice on the other end of the receiver. "He's not exactly easy to pin down these days."

I was scared to breathe.

"What? Are you fucking serious?" he growled through clenched teeth, his control hanging on by a thread. "No, I'm not doing that. He's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

My hands became emergency blackout curtains for my face. I did not want to look or hear anything. I was officially off the clock.

Royce took a deep, audible breath, shifting his weight and causing the bed frame above me to creak.

I opened my eyes and peeked through my fingers to see him now sitting at the foot of the bed. His feet were planted firmly on the floor, his long legs stretched out on either side of my horizontal view. The sight of him perched there made my heart race with apprehension.

"No," he replied with a defeated tone, the weight of his words dragging him down like an anchor. "Again, that's not my problem." Another long pause stretched out between them before he finally spoke again. "Why should I? It's not like he appreciates anything I do for him."

The guy on the other end of the phone, with a deep and masculine tone that seared through the receiver and into my eardrums like shards of glass, erupted into a cacophony of rage sounds. He was less like a person and more like a foghorn with serious anger management issues.