I pad into the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. Everything is exactly as I left it: clean, orderly, a testament to the quiet control I crave in my life. I grab my favorite mug, scoop the coffee grounds, then reach for the sugar jar.
The first sip is an assault. A bitter, salty wave that makes me choke, sputtering coffee across the sink.What the hell?I stare at the sugar jar, then dip a suspicious finger in. Salt. The entire jar is filled with salt.
My eyes narrow. I spin around, my gaze sweeping the kitchen. Everything looks normal. But now I’m looking closer. The spice rack above the stove… my spices are in alphabetical order. Always. Except now, the cayenne is where the cinnamon should be.
A low growl builds in my chest. I stalk into the living room. The records are all in their sleeves, the books are all flush on the shelves. But I know my system. Neil Young does not come after Nirvana. I pull out the record. It’s in the wrong sleeve. Rage, hot and immediate, prickles under my skin.
Then I stop.
A slow grin spreads across my face.The little menace.
It isn’t an attack, but a message. This is Darla after a night of being treated like a fragile doll, reminding me she is anything but. In my house, she feels safe enough to declare her own silent, chaotic war. And the thought, instead of pissing me off, sends a wave of something warm and dangerously close to pride through my chest.
I find her in the guest room, just waking up, blinking against the morning light. Swallowed by one of my old T-shirts, her blonde hair forms a messy halo on the pillow. She looks innocent as hell, but isn’t. My eyes fix on the shirt. She went shopping with the girls yesterday and came back with bags of her own clothes. And she’s still wearing mine. A fierce, possessive satisfaction settles low in my gut.Good.
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms, holding the full salt shaker. “Morning,” I say. My voice is deceptively casual.
She stretches, a slow, feline movement that makes my gut clench. “Morning,” she says, her voice thick with sleep.
“Sleep okay?”
“Yeah, actually,” she says, sitting up. “It was… quiet.”
“Good. Glad one of us did.” I hold up the salt shaker. “My coffee this morning was an… experience.”
Her eyes widen with perfect, practiced innocence. “Oh no. What happened?”
“You happened,” I say, taking a step into the room. “My bed has also been moved two inches to the left. My spices have been fraternizing. And Neil Young is currently having an identity crisis.”
She presses her lips together, but I see the laughter dancing in her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” I close the distance, stopping at the foot of her bed. “I guess it was the glitter demons Ruby was talking about. They must be really into interior design.”
That does it. A real laugh escapes her, bright and clear, and the sound hits me straight in the chest. It’s the sound I’ve been craving.
“Maybe you should label things,” she says, her voice full of smug satisfaction. “I hear you like that.”
My grin turns predatory. “Oh, I’m going to label some things, all right.” I turn and walk out, leaving her laughing in the bed.Game on.
Later, I find her in the kitchen, making a sandwich. The playful energy from the morning is still humming between us. She’s wearing the same oversized shirt and a pair of shorts that are criminally short, showing off the long, pale line of her thighs.
“Looking for the sugar?” I ask, leaning against the counter, blocking her exit.
“Found it,” she says without looking at me, her voice breezy. “It was in the salt shaker. Weird.”
“Hilarious.” I don’t move. I just watch her, the way she moves around my kitchen like she belongs here. “You think this is a game? You have no idea the trouble you just started, princess.”
She finally looks up, a challenge glittering in her eyes. “Is that a threat, East?”
“It’s a promise.”
I push off the counter and close the space between us in two steps. She backs up until the edge of the counter presses into her lower back. Trapped. I place my hands on the granite on either side of her, caging her in. The playful energy of the morning shatters, replaced instantly by something raw and electric. The air crackles, thick with the memory of last night’s kiss.
“My revenge,” I murmur, leaning in close, my voice dropping so low it’s a vibration against her skin, “is going to be meticulous. I’m going to find everything you think you’ve hidden. Every weak spot.” My eyes drop to her mouth, to the lips I already know taste like a promise. “And I’m going to exploit it until you’re begging me to stop.”
Her breath hitches, a tiny, sharp sound. Her eyes are dark and wide, her pupils blown. She knows I’m not talking about pranks anymore.
Instead of moving my hand, I dip my head, my lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear. She shivers, a full-body tremor that rocks her. Good. I trail a line of slow, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, tasting the salt and sun on her skin. She smells of citrus and woman.My woman. My gaze catches on a faint, purple mark on the side of her neck, a ghost of Trent’s touch. A low growl rumbles in my chest, a possessive, animal sound.
