“It isn’t that bad,” I say, watching him closely.
I’ve never seen this side of him. It’s as if having their father in the house has unleashed some dark, possessive, and protective thing from inside him. It makes me wonder if he’s still plagued with the same thoughts as I am.
What if Fallon had ordered the soldier to pull the trigger? What if I had refused to cooperate?
Reaper adjusts his mask and backs away, then shrugs out of his thin black jacket, and tosses it over the back of another chair. He hits the metal handle of the faucet and removes his gloves, washing his hands. Each movement he makes is stiff, precise, rubbing dish soap between his fingers, then drying them off with a towel.
“What do you want?” he asks, throwing the kitchen towel over his shoulder as he adjusts his mask around his nose.
The question feels so absurd, so out of character, that I laugh. He pulls at his mask, almost awkwardly as he watches me.
“Are you asking me what I want to eat?” I say, sliding a hand over my face. “Or are you asking me what I want to do? Because going home to Cora is at the top of my list.”
“Cora is fine,” he says, gaze darting to the door.
My heart kicks against my ribs as I sit upright. “Fine?” I ask, carefully lowering my tone. “Fine, and not near Rune, fine? Or away from Zane, fine?”
“Fine and fine,” he says.
My breath bursts from my lungs. “Was the arrangement broken?” I whisper.
His subtle nod has me sinking into my chair, tears pricking my eyes. I want to ask more, get every single detail, but without another word, Reaper opens a cabinet and grabs a plate, telling me I’m not going to get more information.
My head spins, sorting through the number of ways the arrangement with Zane could be broken. Unless Zane backed out? God, I hope she didn’t do something stupid.
“Have you heard from them?” I whisper, wondering who contacted him. Clyde or Viper or Breaker? I know they’ve been keeping in contact, but I know so few details, it’s infuriating. “Will you please tell me?”
“Not now,” he says gruffly, pulling out boxes of crackers and dried fruits. He grabs cheese and grapes from the fridge andsets them and the plate in a tray. He takes a second to arrange everything, then grabs a glass and fills it with bottled water.
My gaze dips to his ass as he moves, then up his large muscular back to the back of his head. A strange warmth blooms in my chest as I watch him, remembering the day I caught him cooking. How he stormed out, pissed at my mere existence, but now I wonder if that’s what it was, or if he was angry he’d been caught.
Seeing him now, moving around, carefully preparing food for me, I realize it was Reaper who must have made sure we had proper meals and never went hungry. He was the one who made pancakes for us after that night with them. After he made us promises. Claimed us.
I don’t know the significance of it all, but I know I’ve been paying attention to all the wrong things when it comes to him.
I cough, trying to clear the clog in my throat. “You know what sounds good?” I ask. “Spaghetti.”
He pauses briefly, glancing at me, then resumes preparing my tray.
“Or pizza. Or a burger.” That makes him cast another look my way, and my chest squeezes with a sensation I’ve never felt before or even know how to identify.
“A nice greasy one,” I continue. “With Fries. And then cupcakes. And then donuts. God, I miss junk food.” A throaty moan escapes me, and Reaper’s dark eyes meet mine over his shoulder. “Or maybe pancakes. They are Cora’s favorite. I like pancakes too.”
“I know,” he says, but it comes out with a slight grumble as if the thought of ingesting pancakes is too heinous to endure.
The thud of the tray hitting the table as he sets it down feels too loud and too harsh for all the new feelings swirling inside me. I swing my legs underneath the table and place my hands on the top as usual, preparing myself for this ridiculousroutine that I refuse to admit I like. It just makes me miss Breaker, and that same warmth blooms again. Brighter. Hotter.
I don’t know what happened, but Cora is safe. She has Breaker and Viper now, and that’s all that matters.
He drags a chair over and sits sideways in it, his thighs framing the back and sides of my chair, his warm inner thigh pressing against my leg. I glance his way, not sure why he’s so close, so I ask, “Should I move so you can sit here, or do you plan on sitting on my lap this time?”
“I’d crush you under my weight, little Kitten,” he says.
My cheeks heat because I know what it feels like to be under his weight. That smirk he’s so good at makes his mask move over his lips, and my heart thrashes as a single thought takes root. Grows.
He keeps pushing me away with cold efficiency, then pulling me close with a desire that nearly flays me. Admitting he cares, then covers it up. It all has me spinning until I think this sensation is me falling. I fear what will happen when I land.
I already care too much.
