We eat at the island. He’s made garlic bread and poured wine I definitely shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach but do anyway because liquid courage is a thing.
The pasta is perfect. Rich and briny and so good I actually make an embarrassing sound.
“This is obscene,” I tell him, twirling another bite. “Like, so good, it should be illegal. Or something.”
His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. “You’re easy to please.”
“I am absolutelynot.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I just appreciate quality when I taste it.”
The double meaning hangs between us like smoke.
“Uh huh,” he replies, as I turn insta-red.
We finish eating. He clears the plates. I offer to help but he waves me off so I just stand there feeling useless and wired and way too aware of how quiet the house is without Ben.
“Come upstairs,” hesays finally.
Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an invitation wrapped in certainty.
“What about staff?” I ask. Because I already know what’s going to happen upstairs.
“Gone home for the night,” he replies. “Only Jag is on duty, keeping watch on the perimeter outside.”
I follow him to the primary suite. The room I’ve slept in during crisis nights but never like this. Never with intent.
He moves to the nightstand and picks up something I’ve seen before but never really noticed. A hunting knife in an ornamental sheath. Old leather. Worn handle.
“My dad gave me this,” Marco says quietly, turning it over in his hands. “When I was Ben’s age. After our first hunt together.”
I move closer. He opens the sheath and shows me the blade. It’s beautiful in that dangerous way knives are.
“Hold it,” he offers.
I take it carefully. The weight surprises me. It’s heavier than I expected. The handle fits my palm like it was made for hands bigger than mine but I can still grip it properly.
“It’s really important to you,” I say, meeting his eyes. “That you take Ben hunting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He takes the knife back. Returns it reverently to the nightstand. “It’s about showing her the world isn’t something to hide from. That respect and fear can exist together.”
When you realize he’s not just talking about hunting.
“Okay,” I tell him. Because what else can I say? That I’m terrified? That the woods make my skin crawl? That I’ll go anyway because I can’t let him do this alone?
He knows all that already. Or he’s inferred it.
He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell that cedar and espresso combination that I yearn for.
“Jess.” My name again. Like a question he’s been asking for weeks.
I answer by kissing him.
It’s not gentle. Not tentative. It’s desperation embodied. A messy kiss incorporating everything we’ve been tryingnotto do.
His hands lock around my waist, spinning me until my back hits the wall. I gasp as he pins my wrists above my head, his kiss savage and starved.
Then he steers me toward the bed. One broad palm branding the small of my back as we stumble forward, our kiss breaking only when my calves hit the mattress.
“On the bed,” he rasps against my mouth, and the command shivers through me.
