“It was a poor joke, but you could still laugh, for the sake of brotherhood.” I lean back against the couch. “She’s staying with her tonight.”
This time, his face changes, just a little. Not many people could pick up on it, but I can. He’s not happy. His source of oxygen is no longer within his visible range.
“Are there cameras in her house?” he asks.
I chuckle. “Do you think everyone is a stalker?”
“In her bedroom?” he asks. He doesn’t know the answer to this one.
I decide to do him this favor. “There is, but you’re not getting access to her home system. I’ll send you screenshots whenever you want. You know it's not morally right to watch a young girl’s private space.”
He raises a brow. “Why is this giving me the hint that there are cameras in her bathroom?”
I roll my eyes. “Do I look like a creep to you? Come on, man. I’m not a cheap stalker.”
He nods. “In her closet?”
I laugh.
I had put a few in her closet. It’s one of my favorite spots. I like to watch her there while she’s picking her outfit. It's always a refreshing experience. She shows a good range of emotions in that space—sometimes confused, sometimes annoyed, sometimes tired. Talking to herself while matching her top with her bottoms, or discussing the weather with herself.
Never once have I watched her without clothes. Or at least without her bra and panties. I don't want to spoil the experienceof watching her naked in front of me, in my bed, under me. The imagination is enough to give me a hard dick.
Imagination and anticipation.
Anticipation of getting what's mine.
That has always been mine.
chapter 7
Iselyn
My alarm drags me out of bed at 7 a.m. Avi is still sleeping like a log. Unlike me, she has no trouble adjusting to an unfamiliar place. I, on the other hand, can’t get a proper night’s sleep for the first two nights anywhere new.
After a bath, I head to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. I love cooking. Neither my mom nor dad can cook, but I have a huge interest in preparing delicious food, and, of course, eating it. My teacher is Nana Irina. She was our housekeeper, but for my mom, she’s like a mother. She officially stopped working a long time ago, yet she still lives with us.
I start making a simple sandwich.
Thick slices of rye bread, still warm from the toaster, filling the kitchen with its nutty, earthy aroma. I spread a generous layer of creamy butter, letting it melt slightly on the warm bread. Then I add thin slices of smoky, pink salmon. A few crisp cucumber rings follow, their refreshing scent mixing with the salmon. I sprinkle finely chopped dill on top. A subtle smear of horseradish cream gives the sandwich a kick. Finally, I top it with another slice of bread, pressing gently so all the layers fuse perfectly. The bread crunches softly as I press it together, a satisfying sound that makes my mouth water.
Once ready, I set our plates on the table. Just then, the doorbell rings. I glance at the wall clock, it’s already 8:30. The cleaning staff must have arrived.
I remove my apron, place it on the counter, and make my way to the door. I open it and immediately feel an unpleasant presence. He stands there, holding a bouquet of blue hyacinths and wearing that infuriating, calculated smile.
“Good morning, Angel,” he says, extending the bouquet.
I don’t take it. He steps inside uninvited. I close the door behind him, following cautiously. He sets the bouquet on the table and reaches for a plate.
I sprint forward and snatch it from his hand. “It’s not for you.”
He grabs another plate. I move to intercept it, but he deftly shifts it away, blocking me with his body and the table. He picks up a sandwich and takes a big bite. I pause, watching his reaction.
Why the heck do you want to see if he likes it or not?my conscience yells at me, but I mute it and watch the slight raise of his eyebrow, the faint nod that follows. With a broad, pleased smile, he takes another big bite.
In no time, he finishes the sandwich while I keep staring at him, watching the way he enjoys it, and I hate the too-strong surge of pride and satisfaction flooding my chest. I’m only feeling this way because I like it when someone enjoys the food I cook. There is nothing strange about it. Nothing at all.
He places the empty plate down and turns toward me. “I like it.”
