Little Liar: A Dark Taboo Romance (The Web of Silence Duet Book 2)
Little Liar: Chapter 21

My eyes slide open at the sound of the floorboards creaking.

It’s early morning, the sun starting to rise and brighten the sky—birds are chirping, and a little rain drizzles against the window.

But when I sit up, I see Malachi standing in the middle of the room with his back to me. The tattoos of snakes and doves and web-coated thorns stare back at me.

He’s not signing with his hands or muttering words like the other times I’ve woken to see him like this—he’s swaying side to side ever so slightly, his hands fisted, and he’s covered in sweat so badly that his hair is wet at his nape.

I pull off the covers and walk to him, resting my hand against his back. “Malachi?”

His eyes are open, glued to the wall—he doesn’t acknowledge me.

I chew my lip and look around the room—he’s been taking his meds, and he gets plenty of sleep, which were factors in why he was spiraling. Dad told me that, as a kid, when Malachi was deprived of sleep, his mental health worsened.

What’s causing it now?

“Do you want to come back to bed?”

Although he’s silent and he barely looks lucid as his eyes replace me, he lowers his head to give a gentle nod, his breathing heavy. He’s slow in his movements as I take his hand, fighting with his fingers to loosen them so I can interlace them with mine as I lead us back to the bed.

He wraps around me, cocoons me, burying his nose into my nape and inhaling my strawberry-scented strands. His body relaxes, and his next words stab me right in the heart.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers shakily. “It won’t stop.”

“What won’t?” I ask after a long few seconds, but he’s already fallen asleep.

But I can’t. My mind is in overdrive—stuck on the messages sitting in my phone that I’ve yet to delete. They came through while I was visiting Anna and her babies. Xander, reaching out with his usual threat. That I have no idea what his father is like and the lengths he’d go to have me marry Xander.

I ignored him. Then another message came through, stating that it was in the contract I signed that I’ve got to communicate with him.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks a lot.

I won’t respond. I can’t and won’t do that to Malachi—I made a promise when I came back to him, and I’m keeping it. It’s a secret I need to keep for as long as possible—he’ll eventually replace out, but I can cross that bridge when I come to it.

But telling him right now would be detrimental to his current state. I will. I really will tell him, but not right now. I have everything under control, and when I go to the meeting—whenever it is—I’ll point-blank refuse, tell them all to go fuck themselves, even my mother, and I’ll hand in my resignation.

I have no need to work with my mother. I can get a job somewhere else and actually be happy, and not bossed around like I’m her damn slave.

Maybe I’ll ask Malachi if Molly can come stay with us? Once I’m free of my obligations, Mom will try to put my sister in my shoes, and that’s something else I’ll refuse. I know Malachi likes her—he doesn’t scowl at her the way he does with everyone else, even though he hasn’t spoken to, or signed to her, once. But he does listen—he took in every single word that fell from her lips while we were dress shopping earlier, even if it was drama at school.

He wouldn’t even blow his cigarette smoke near her, yet I always get a face full, whether it’s to annoy me or to make me come for him.

Deep down, he tolerates her, which means something.

Maybe she’ll be the little sister I couldn’t be growing up? He needed a sibling when he came to the Vizes, and instead, he got a twisted heart and fell for someone with a ball and chain attached to her ankle.

My eyes finally close, and I wake a few hours later to the alarm on my phone reminding me to get up for work, sitting up quickly when I feel the bed empty beside me.

Getting off the bed, I spot him lying on the floor, and my heart ricochets in panic as I rush to him, then stop when I realize he’s on his back with his spider crawling around his hand, and he’s in deep thought.

“Have you slept?” I ask.

His chin lowers in a quiet yes as the eight-legged monster shuffles off his hand and onto his chest.

I inwardly shiver.

He shifts, putting his arm up above his head and resting against it while the other hand rests at his side—he’s not even trying to stop the spider crawling over his chest, my body stiffening when it stops at his shoulder.

“Have you figured out what you’re going to name him?”

His lip pulls at the corner, and he leaves his pet on his chest as he signs, She’s a female.

“How can you tell?”

I thought she was a male, but when she shed, I examined the molt, he signs then says aloud, “for spermathecae.”

For being a complicated word, Malachi says it surprisingly clear.

I honestly have no idea what he’s talking about though. He did a lot of research when he was younger—he’s like a genius when it comes to eight-legged creatures.

“You like spiders,” I state the obvious. “They creep me out.”

He laughs silently. Red-knees are docile. She’s harmless to you. Do you want to name her?

“You name her.”

He tips his head, staring at the animal as if she’s going to look like a name. He shrugs then looks at me again. “Cordelia.”

“I like that,” I say.

Although I need to get showered and ready for work, I sit down beside him, still keeping enough distance as Cordelia crawls over the top of his hand slowly—Malachi rotates his hand as she moves. I’ve always known he’s loved spiders. Cats, dogs, rabbits, parrots, all the other household pets, you name it, he loves them, but spiders—or more so tarantulas—hold a special place in his heart.

He even has a spider tattooed on his hand and some webs across his chest and the backs of his calves. The aesthetic is beautiful, mixing with all his other designs too. I trace the tip of my finger across the ink on his shoulder, down his bicep, while he keeps his attention on his pet. “Cordelia is the same breed as Spikey,” I say, watching him. “Is the red-knee your favorite then?”

All he does is nod once.

I want to ask so many questions. I know he had a tarantula as a kid and that it died. Mom said when he was brought into the hospital, it was dead in his pocket. All of its legs were ripped off, and it took four nurses to take it from him.

The brave side of me peeks through, and I get closer, reaching my hand out and hovering my fingertips over her. Malachi looks at me questioningly, his brow raised.

I’ve always been afraid of spiders—anything small and monstrous looking makes me shiver and want to run in the opposite direction, but if I’m going to live under the same roof as this one, then I need to try to squash this fear.

My arachnophobia is screaming at me as I feel the furriness of her coat, and when one of her legs lifts, I flinch my hand back.

“I can’t,” I say, holding my hand as if the spider hurt me.

He laughs, half-smiling, and takes her back to the tank. You’ll like her one day, he signs.

“When I’m dead,” I reply, accepting his hand as he helps me to my feet. “Can you take me to work?”

He nods, grabbing my face with both hands, dragging me towards him, and planting a kiss on my lips.