Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 90: Who Is It

June POV:

Okay.

I knew the universe was a bitch.

But I didn’t know she was a sadistic, full-blown evil witch with a vendetta.

Because guess who was in class?

Guess who was not just in class, but sitting right next to me—looking all smug and relaxed like he hadn’t been the source of ninety-seven percent of my emotional damage lately?

Justin.

Of course it was him.

And of course he looked like the fucking devil’s favorite—leaning back in his chair, arm casually draped over the back of mine, like we were on a cozy date and not trapped in an anxiety-riddled fake relationship where I was trying not to give away that I’d been railed within an inch of my life by a masked man the night before.

I could feel his eyes on me.

Not just looking.

Inspecting.

Analyzing.

Like he could sense something was off. Like the bastard had a sixth sense for slutty secrets and was narrowing in on mine with every sideways glance.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t even trying to hide it.

He kept fucking playing with my hair.

Like gently twirling it around his fingers, brushing it back behind my ear, letting it fall and touch the collar of my hoodie with a precision that made me want to scream.

I was frozen stiff, doing the worst acting job in the history of acting. My hoodie was pulled up high, the collar tight, and I was internally screaming every time his fingers got too close to the minefield of hickeys Bad Wolf had lovingly left like fucking warning signs.

I had meant to cover them up. With concealer, foundation, divine intervention—anything.

But I’d been so exhausted. So sore. So brain-dead from sex and steam and too much caffeine, that I’d completely forgotten to check my neck before running out the door.

And now here I was.

Sitting next to Justin.

Who kept smirking at me like he knew something.

Who kept leaning closer like he could sniff out guilt.

Who kept touching my hair like he owned me.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I couldn’t even focus on the lecture. The professor was babbling something about abnormal psychology, but all I could think about was how I probably had a hickey shaped like a wolf paw somewhere on my shoulder, and Justin was going to see it, and my life would spiral into flames right here on this ugly-ass university carpet.

"Sleep okay last night?" he murmured suddenly, low enough that no one else could hear, but warm enough to crawl straight into my skin.

My heart stopped.

He knew.

Somehow he fucking knew.

I forced a smile. "Like a rock."

He tilted his head. "That why you look like you fought a war this morning?"

I swallowed.

Don’t react. Don’t give anything away.

"Midterms," I said, shrugging. "Stress dreams."

"Right," he drawled, voice rich with bullshit detector energy. "Stress dreams. The kind that leave marks on your neck?"

My whole body tensed.

He saw them.

Fucking hell.

I turned slightly, angling away, trying to keep my hoodie up and my death glare sharper than a dagger. "Don’t touch me," I hissed under my breath.

But of course he only smirked.

Of course.

Because Justin was a menace who enjoyed pushing buttons like it was foreplay, and right now? I was a big shiny red panic button begging to be smashed.

I clenched my jaw, willing the class to end. Willing the ceiling to cave in. Willing myself to vanish into thin air and never come back.

Instead, I got more hair twirling.

More glances.

More smug, dangerous smiles that said I know something you don’t.

Fuck.

If this was hell, I was its main character.

JUSTIN POV:

Rico told me June came home late last night.

Real late.

And this morning? She was walking weird.

He said it like a casual observation.

But to me?

It was a fucking grenade lobbed straight into my gut.

I didn’t ask him to elaborate.

Didn’t need to.

I knew what "walking weird" meant.

I’ve left enough women walking weird to recognize the signs.

But June?

No.

No fucking way.

It took everything in me to keep my smirk in place. To act normal. To breathe like my lungs weren’t laced with smoke and jealousy and rage. I kept tapping my pen, nodding in class, pretending that I hadn’t just pieced together a puzzle I never wanted to see completed.

She was late.

She was sore.

She was acting distant and twitchy and way too flushed for someone who claimed to be up all night with "stress dreams."

And yet, it wasn’t Nate.

That, I’d confirmed.

I’d kept my eyes locked on him since yesterday. Nate hadn’t been anywhere near her after they bumped into each other. I’d had someone check—no texts, no meetups, nothing.

So that begged the question—

Who the fuck was she with?

I couldn’t figure it out. Couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Some random guy?

Someone I didn’t know?

Some stranger who got to touch her, fuck her, mark her, while I—

My jaw clenched so hard it ached.

The voices in my head—those relentless bastards—taunted me.

Yeah.

Yeah, I know.

I fucking know.

But it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Didn’t erase the image of June in someone else’s arms.

Didn’t quiet the sick twist in my chest when I looked at her—wearing that hoodie like armor, with her hair pulled down to hide the bruises that weren’t mine.

I should’ve felt nothing.

I should’ve.

After all, just last night I was with Pretty Cat—my escape, my distraction, my fix.

I had her moaning beneath me, her body responding to mine like she was made for me, and when I closed my eyes, I let myself pretend it was June.

But now?

Now that I saw June again, soft and sleepy-eyed in class, looking like she’d been thoroughly wrecked by someone else’s hands?

The pleasure I’d felt turned bitter.

Because whoever it was—

They got to have her when I couldn’t.

And that burned more than any voice in my head ever could.

I watched her squirm under my gaze, shifting in her seat, probably worried I’d figured her out. She kept her collar high, kept her neck covered, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew the signs.

I knew my marks.

And I knew which ones weren’t mine.

God, the fucking nerve of her showing up like this, all flustered and trying to hide. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

I leaned closer, pretending to brush lint off her sleeve just to breathe her in.

And I caught it.

That scent.

That faint smell clinging to her skin.

Not just soap and shampoo—but sweat, lust, sex.

Her muscles jumped under my touch.

Her whole body stiffened like she was made of tension and guilt.

I should have pulled back.

Should’ve kept my distance.

But instead I twirled a strand of her hair around my finger and whispered low, "Sleep okay last night?"

Her voice was tight when she answered. "Like a rock."

Liar.

Fucking liar.

I wanted to pull her away right then and demand answers.

I wanted to grab her face, tilt her head, and see just how many bruises she was hiding beneath that hoodie.

But I didn’t.

I smiled instead.

Because if she thought she could play this game with me?

She didn’t know who the fuck she was dealing with.

Let’s see how long you last, June.

Let’s see how long before your secrets bleed through that skin you think hides them so well.

She knew I knew.

And she was panicking.

Not the screaming, flailing kind of panic—no, June was smarter than that. But I’ve known her long enough to see through the cracks. The way her hand twitched as she reached for her pen, dropped it twice before gripping it too tight. The way she kept pretending to look at the board but hadn’t written a single damn word since class started. The way her hoodie suddenly felt like her only armor.

She was unraveling.

And it was fucking glorious.

My smile stretched a little wider. Not because I was cruel—well, maybe a little—but because she thought she could lie to me. Pretend she wasn’t fucked raw last night. Pretend she didn’t stumble in like a walking sin

I needed to know.

Who the fuck was the guy she got involved with?

Because it sure as hell wasn’t Nate—I had Rico tailing that idiot all night, and his report was clean. Nate was in his apartment watching some documentary about dreams and mental perception. Boring. Predictable. Not the kind of man who could leave June walking like her legs forgot how to function.

So that left someone else.

Someone I didn’t know.

Someone who had touched her.

Fucked her.

Marked her.

And that made the blood behind my eyes throb. My hands clenched under the desk. My jaw was locked so tight I could hear my own teeth grind. The voices in my head were already snarling—One wanted blood, another was laughing, the other was seething.

"You don’t get to care."

"You fucked someone else too, remember?"

"Yeah, but not her. Not June."

It didn’t matter.

I needed to know.

I needed a name. A face. A reason to break someone’s nose. I would burn the whole goddamn campus down if I had to.

Because whoever he was...

He touched what’s mine.

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