Until now. It’s as if his words stirred something—brushed the dust off a part of me I’d let sleep too long.
Dante’s words.
Dante.
The name alone feels like a chord strummed low and warm inside my chest. A smile ghosts across my lips as I step through a shaft of light, the warmth brushing over my bare arms. My hair is tied loosely, falling in strands against a silk shirt that slips off one shoulder as I reach for the pan.
The bacon meets the heat with a sharp hiss, the sound folding neatly into the morning. My cheeks flush, whether from the stove’s warmth or the echo of his voice still lingering in my head.
Something about him makes it impossible not to smile.
I crack two eggs into the pan, the soft, delicate plop of their shells splitting sending ripples through the kitchen. The sound stirs something buried—a memory brushing against the edges of my mind, tender and heavy. My smile falters for a fraction of a second, slipping into something quieter, denser, almost weighted with the echo of that remembered moment.
And then it returns, sweeping through me like sunlight breaking through clouds, brighter and impossible to contain, spilling across my face as if it had been waiting only for this small, ordinary sound to awaken it.
The yolks gleam, round and golden, twin suns beside the curling ribbons of bacon. I watch them settle before reaching for a handful of spinach, twirling the green leaves absentmindedly between my fingers.
The waitress’s green eyes flash before me. I remember the way the light inside them flickered, dimmed, and finallyvanished, leaving behind nothing but that empty, glassy stillness.
Killing her had felt clean. Satisfying in its precision. Now, whenever I see something green, I can’t help but think of that restaurant, of her eyes.
I lift a leaf of spinach to my lips, pressing it softly against them. The texture is tender, almost velvety—like her skin under my fingers, right before she slipped from my grasp. That moment replays in my head, the quiet shock of it, feeling like butter sliding off a knife.
A tragic accident. Common. Unpredictable. Fuckingperfect.
A shiver rakes through me the moment the front door clicks open, before it quickly slams shut with a finality that reverberates through the apartment. My hands jerk, setting the spinach down on the counter, and I spin around, catching Cane framed in the doorway, watching me.
“Oh, it’s you,” I say lightly, the smile still on my lips, though thinner now, uncertain at the edges as I relax slightly.
He doesn’t smile back. His jaw tightens, and before I can even take a step, he’s already moving. In one blur of motion, he closes the distance, his hand locking around my throat as he slams me against the wall.
My head cracks against the surface, the sound ringing sharp in my skull. My teeth cut into my tongue, spreading the immediate metallic taste of blood across my mouth. Hissing in pain, my eyes clench shut, fingers wrapping instinctively around his wrist.
“How many times,” he growls, his voice scraping with fury, “do I have to tell you to play by the rules? Did you forget who you’re working for, Estella?”
I slap weakly at his wrist, my vision pulsing at the edges. Pressure builds in my temples until the world starts to blur into an indistinguishable haze.
“Let… go,” I manage to whisper, my words cracking as a high, distant ringing fills the air.
His eyes stay locked on mine, drilling through me with that unflinching, icy focus of his. For a long, tense heartbeat, he doesn’t move. His fingers remain clamped around my throat, his thumb pressing just enough to remind me how easily he could crush what’s left of my air.
And then, just as suddenly, he releases.
The world tilts, and I stumble forward, coughing, the burn in my lungs sharp and aching. The wall feels cold against my palm as I catch myself, every nerve in my body trembling with leftover adrenaline. Then, I feel his hands again—but this time, they slip around my waist, grounding me. His grip steadies me, pulling me back against him until my chest meets the shape of his.
Warmth seeps into my skin where his hands rest. Slowly, my breath evens out, drawn in rhythm with his, as the chaos inside me softens into something quieter—something very close to comfort. The scent of his masculine cologne lingers in the air, crawling into my lungs and grounding me. I close my eyes, letting the dizziness fade as I melt into him.
Cane loves to act like the mentor, the handler, the one in charge. He likes to bark orders and remind me of the rules. But we both know that line between control and something else has long since blurred. Every time I test him, every time I disobey, he snaps not out of duty, but out of fear—fear of what they might do to me if I cross one too many lines.
And now, his anger isn’t about my defiance; it’s about the thought of losing me.
I let myself dissolve in that thought. His warmth, his strength, the quiet hum of his breath against my ear—it all folds around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed. Even in the darkest moments, he’s always been there. He doesn’t say it, butI know it. I can feel it in the way his hands linger a moment too long.
Cane loves me. He can pretend he doesn’t, but it’s impossible not to.
We stand like this for a while, soaking in the comfort of each other, before the loud hiss of the pan rips through the stillness, making me flinch.
“Shit,” I mutter, pulling away from him. The loss of his touch strikes like a sudden drop in temperature, spreading an unwelcome chill through me. I rush to the stove, twisting the knob to kill the flame. The bacon is slightly crispier than I planned, but still salvageable. My heartbeat slows, though the echo of his grip still throbs faintly in my throat.
