"Something like that," I admit, reluctantly placing the cookbook back on the shelf. "Maybe a pile of guns on the floor and bloodstains on the walls."
He snorts, moving past me to check on Ricky, who's still unconscious on the bed. "Just because I can kill a man seventeen different ways doesn't mean I want to live in filth."
I follow him with my eyes, trying to reconcile the man who threatened me earlier with this... domestic creature who apparently annotates baking recipes. "So you're telling me you built all this?"
"Most of it." There's unmistakable pride in his voice as he glances around. “Didn’t build the stove, the refrigerator, the kitchen hardware. But most of what you see? Yeah, I built it or remodeled it. This cabin had good bones, despite being a wreck when I found it.”
“Why?”
Tank shrugs, pulling a water bottle from the counter and twisting off the cap. “When you don’t have nice things when you’re younger, sometimes you have to give those things to yourself as an adult.”
Something in the way he says it makes me pause. There’s no sarcasm, no teasing. It’s just… matter-of-fact. A truth buried in those words.
I study him. This brutal, impossible man—who kidnaps people and chains them to beds, who cracks jokes while securing a prisoner—but who also lives here, in this strangely beautiful space he built for himself.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Tank takes a long swallow of water, his throat working, before he looks at me with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might not answer, that I've crossed some invisible line with my question.
"I mean exactly what I said," he finally replies, his voice rougher than before. "Some of us didn't grow up with silver spoons and fancy galas, princess."
I bristle at the assumption. Bristle even more at how incorrect it is. He thinks I grew up wealthy? No, I grew up afraid. "You think I had it easy?"
"Easier than most," he counters, gesturing vaguely at my clothes, my hair, my everything. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you've never had to worry about your next meal or whether the heat would stay on through winter."
I want to argue, to tell him he knows nothing about me, but just as I open my mouth, his shoulders tighten, his eyes darken, his face shutters. The change is instant.
“It’s time for you to go,” he says.
I could let it go. But I don’t. Because I remember why I’m here, and it’s not to admire his handcrafted kitchen.
I cross my arms, plant my feet.
“Not until I’m sure that you will not kill Ricky.”
Tank snorts, shaking his head. “Not only am I not going to kill Ricky, I’ve already extended to him the awkward hospitality of giving him the only damn bed in this place, and there's no fucking way I’m crawling in beside him. I’ll be sleeping on the goddamn floor until he and I are through and I’ve gotten what I want from him.”
I narrow my eyes. “Gotten what you want? Is that why you chained him to the bed?”
Tank smirks, that infuriating, cocky glint back in his eyes. “Your mind went right to it, huh? Or was it already there — thinking about just what it’d feel like to be chained to my bed?”
I hate the way my cheeks burn at his insinuation. "That's not what I meant."
"No?" His eyes dance with amusement. "Because I'm pretty sure that's exactly what you were thinking."
"I was thinking that you're a psychopath who's chained an unconscious man to your bed. Forgive me for wondering what your intentions are."
Tank steps closer, and I fight the urge to back away. I won't give him the satisfaction.
I glare. “So what is it, then?”
He tilts his head, looking me over. “No, what I want isn’t in his pants. But seeing as I’ve already told you, I’m not killing him. It’s time for you to leave. Tell me where I can drop you.”
I shake my head. "I'm not going anywhere."
