“I, uh, put scoops from all the coffee in there.”
All the coffee? She turned to the left and grabbed for the cabinet door. Inside that cabinet, she found some very, very old coffee canisters. With an assortment of flavors. Caramel. Mocha. French Vanilla. Two different kinds of Roast.
“You…like coffee,” he muttered. “So I put a lot of them in there.”
“I may be getting over the whole liking coffee bit.” She let go of the cabinet door and squinted at him. “You don’t make coffee a lot, do you?”
One shoulder lifted and fell in a shrug. “Don’t drink it. So, no, I don’t make it. If I don’t drink it, why ever make it?”
Great question. And Agnes had what she believed to be a great question of her own to toss back at him. “But you tried to make it for me…because you’re a soulless monster who goes around killing his own family for shits and giggles?”
His arms crossed over his chest. He looked extra grim and broody.
“Don’t buy it.” She didn’t. “I don’t buy the scary image you’re trying to present. So let’s change things up, shall we?” She stalked toward him. Eliminated the small bit of distance and poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I’ve read your father’s rap sheet. His and your uncle’s. They were connected to murders, robberies, drug-running. They were far from what I’d call saintly.” More like they’d been tied to the devil.
“The Night Strikers were created by my family. I took them over when I defeated my uncle.”
“Defeated doesn’t mean killed.” A very important distinction. “I searched through every database that I could access.” And she’d been able to access plenty of them. “There is no record of your uncle’s death.”
Cass smiled at her. “Sometimes, it’s easier when there is no body to find.”
Scary. And truthful. It was harder to prosecute a murder when there was no body—or, uh, no victim. “What happened?”
He glanced toward the wall on the right.
She followed his gaze. Saw the big clock. “Are we expecting company or something?” She really needed to figure out where the hell they were. Other than in a safe house that belonged to the Night Strikers.
“Or something,” he muttered.
“If we’re about to have company, then maybe you shouldn’t have been offering to fuck me on the table,” she snapped. “Because I don’t like for strangers to walk in when I’m naked. Future reference note.”
His gaze returned to her. Glittered. “No one else will see you naked.” A vow.
“Well, good to know. Thanks.”
“But you are gonna have to get tatted soon.”
Wait, wait…what? She laughed.
He did not.
Oh, no, he did not. “Cass?” Husky. “Are you teasing me right now?”
“Do I look like I’m teasing?”
He looked like he’d never teased anyone a day in his life. “No.”
“Some undercover missions require a lifetime commitment.” His head tipped forward. “You’re about to commit to me.”
Uh, huh. “A tattoo.” She wet her lips. “Like the two-headed snake on your back? Was that a lifetime commitment?”
The darkness of his eyes had almost completely swallowed the gold. His jaw hardened.
Extra broody. Damn but that vibe worked for him. She stopped poking him in the chest and let her hand fall to her side. “Did you think I wasn’t going to get back to your cobra tattoo? To your membership in the Twins? I wish you’d just lay your cards on the table and tell me everything so that?—”
“You’re getting tatted today. I’m the leader of the Night Strikers, and my lady has to wear my mark.”
“That’s…barbaric.”
