Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 48: Getting Suspicious

Justin’s POV

"I didn’t sleep with him," she whispered.

"Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not!" she cried, her voice cracking open like glass.

Her words hit me like a truck.

The room spun.

I stared at her.

Her eyes were wild—filled with something between panic and shame and truth. Something raw.

My mouth went dry.

I remembered the marks. The way she’d clawed at me like she needed to be reminded she was alive. The desperation in her kiss. The way she didn’t look at me like someone who had just cheated.

She looked like someone trying not to drown.

I stood up. I needed distance. Space. Air.

"I can’t," I said.

She didn’t ask what I meant. Just nodded. Stared down at the floor, arms wrapped around herself like armor.

"I thought you hated me," she whispered.

"I did," I said honestly. "Maybe I still do."

She laughed—but it was hollow. Broken. It scraped against the silence like rusted metal.

"I don’t blame you."

I looked at her. Really looked.

Her shoulders were trembling. Her lips were swollen. Her eyes—those fucking eyes—looked like they’d seen hell.

And maybe they had.

Because I knew that look.

I’d seen it in the mirror enough times to recognize it anywhere.

That thousand-yard stare. The kind of silence that came after screaming too long without anyone listening.

She looked like she used to back in the lab—haunted and far away, like something inside her had crawled into a corner and refused to come out. Something definitely wasn’t what it seemed. There was more. Something bigger at play.

And she was hesitant to tell me.

Was she being threatened?

That fear on her face... I knew fear. Lived with it. Slept next to it. Let it whisper in my ear.

Fine.

I wasn’t going to push her.

Not tonight.

But one way or another, I was going to find out what was going on with that old bastard. Because something about him reeked. And the way she flinched when I said his name? That wasn’t guilt. That was trauma.

I sat back down beside her. Didn’t touch her. Just... sat there.

Existing in the same broken space.

"I need answers," I said eventually. My voice was low. Steady, even if I wasn’t.

"Not now. But soon."

She nodded.

"I’ll tell you everything," she said. "But only if you let me stay tonight. Please."

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

But maybe it was supposed to.

I stood. Walked toward my room.

Then stopped.

Looked back at her.

Still seated on the floor—naked, small, shattered.

"You coming?"

She stood.

Walked over.

And this time, when she climbed into my bed beside me, she didn’t touch me.

She just laid there.

Breathing.

Alive.

And for now... that was enough.

*******

If I ever find out she was being abused—after everything we went through at that goddamn lab?

Someone’s going to hell.

And it sure as fuck ain’t me.

I sat there in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. Like it could tell me what the hell was going on with her. Why she looked like she was seconds from shattering. Why she still hadn’t told me everything.

I feel so stupid.

So goddamn stupid for ever hating her.

For envying her.

She got out. She escaped.

She never came back.

She left the rest of us to rot in that place. And I resented her for it. Thought maybe she forgot us. Forgot me.

But maybe she didn’t escape at all.

Maybe they let her go.

And maybe that was the worst punishment of all.

Because now I’m starting to think she never really got away. Not from them. Not from him.

God, that look on her face... The way her hands shook. The bruises she tried to hide. The way she flinched when I raised my voice—even just a little. That wasn’t shame. That wasn’t guilt.

That was fear.

Real, bone-deep fear.

So what was it?

Did she open her legs for him willingly?

Or was it something else?

Was he blackmailing her?

Threatening her?

Or was it worse than that?

Was he owning her the same way the lab tried to own all of us?

Fuck.

I don’t know anymore.

I hate myself for doubting her.

For not seeing it sooner.

For touching her like she was whole when maybe she was still bleeding from wounds I couldn’t see.

And now... I can’t unsee it.

The way she curled into herself like she was trying to disappear. The way she begged—not with words, but with her silence. Her stillness. Like if she moved too fast, everything would fall apart.

I need answers.

But more than that...

I need to know if she’s safe.

Because if she’s not?

God help the bastard touching her.

Because I will find him.

And when I do?

He’s going to pray for death.

June POV

I didn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute I was gasping his name against the floor, his hands still gripping my hips like he was scared I’d vanish.

The next, I was waking up to the feel of his breath on my neck—warm, slow, steady.

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Not when my body still felt like it had been claimed, carved, conquered by him. My thighs ached, my skin stung with old bruises and new ones he gave me, and between my legs, I still felt him. Everywhere. Like he was still inside me, like his hands were still on me, like I wasn’t allowed to forget.

My chest felt heavy.

Not just from the weight of what we’d done—again—but from the way he held me after. Tight. Like he needed me to breathe.

I blinked at the ceiling.

I’d come here hoping for distraction. Hoping Bad Wolf would make me forget. But it was Justin who ruined me. Again.

My lips were swollen. My body marked.

And I didn’t regret a second of it.

That terrified me.

Because it wasn’t just sex anymore. Not even the dirty, depraved kind that left me shaking and starving and desperate.

It was more.

It was the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. The way he growled my name when I was about to fall apart. The way he kissed me like he hated me for making him feel something.

God, I wanted that hate.

I craved it because it meant he still felt something for me.

Even if he didn’t trust me.

Even if he thought I was dirty. That stupid bitch ruined everything. He knows, but he didn’t chase me away. He didn’t throw me out like my ex though.

I turned my face into the crook of his arm. His scent was all over me. My thighs brushed his and I shivered, instantly remembering the way he had taken me in that twisted lotus hold, his breath mingling with mine, his body heat wrapping around me like a cage.

His cage.

And I wanted to stay in it.

What the hell was wrong with me?

His fingers twitched against my waist, tightening like he’d felt my thoughts shift.

"Are you awake?" he asked, voice rough, low, and still laced with that dangerous possession.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t know how.

If I said yes, I’d have to face what we were.

What I was becoming. And if I was to tell him the truth about my monster. He said he wanted answers and I don’t know if my answer would get him running away from me. My mother had called me a liar a brat who wanted to ruin their reputation. My best friend? I confided on her for her to spew lies to my boyfriend now my ex. He now thing me as a girl whose having an affair with her father. A whore. What would justin think of me. He still hasn’t figure out who the man is. Why did he even spare me in the first place? Most guys would kick me out of their apartment. So I freign sleep.

Instead, I turned in his arms and buried my face in his chest. I felt him tense, then—slowly—relax. His chin dipped to rest on my head, and we lay there like that. Still. Quiet. Broken pieces pretending to fit.

I remembered every position. Every whispered "mine." Every snap of his hips that made me forget how to breathe.

I remembered begging for more.

I remembered wanting it rougher.

Not because I didn’t care—but because I cared too much.

I wanted him to hurt me a little.

To make me feel owned.

Because when I was with Justin, it was the only time I felt like I wasn’t still being used by someone else.

The only time I could pretend it was choice.

That I chose him.

He kissed the top of my head and I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting the burn in my throat.

Because this couldn’t last.

Because he was still angry.

Still judging me.

Still believing I’d gone back to the man who touched me like I was property. Like I was nothing.

And maybe I had.

But not willingly.

Never willingly.

I shifted slightly, trying to find words, but none came.

So I did what I always did when I didn’t know how to talk—

I kissed him.

Soft. Gentle. A question without words.

He kissed me back.

But it wasn’t soft.

Not anymore.

It was like he remembered everything too. Like my silence woke something up in him again. His mouth took mine, tongue sliding deep, hands roaming like he wanted another round—despite the bruises on both our bodies.

And I let him.

Because I didn’t want to think.

Because if I spoke, I might break the spell.

Because I was already his—and I didn’t know how to be mine anymore.