“Can you please explain what’s gotten into you?” I ask, my voice still hoarse, rasped raw at the edges.
Reaching up, I grab another plate from the shelf above, flexing my shoulder where tension coils tight. He didn’t say he was coming, so whatever portion I have left—that’s what he gets. No more, no less.
Behind me, the chair creaks as he sits, his coat rustling softly in the quiet. “Oh, please,” he answers finally, his voice calmer now but still sharp enough to slice through the room. “A waitress died in an accident.”
A small, knowing snort escapes me as I start plating the food. “And what made you think I have something to do with that?”
Turning around, I cross the distance between us, the plates warm in my hands. I set them down before him and myself, tilting my head, a faint trace of a smile curving my lips.
“How many more times,” he murmurs, leaning just a little closer, “do you have to fuck up to realize that I always know everything?”
I swallow hard, feeling the faint burn where his hand had pressed against my throat. My fingers trail lazily across it, and a smirk curves my lips.
“Such passion,” I murmur. “How come I never fucked you?”
His eyes widen, round and startled, his expression locking in disbelief as though I’ve just spoken in a language he doesn’t know. His lips part, but no sound comes out. For a man who always has an answer ready, silence looks good on him.
That thought roots itself in my mind and grows fast, like ivy spreading over stone. I press my palm to the counter, leaning into it, letting it linger.
It’s not as absurd as it might sound. Yes, he’s older, but that only adds to him—it doesn’t take anything away. If anything, it deepens the allure, layering him with a dangerous kind of magnetism. Experience etched into the angles of his face, weight in the set of his shoulders, a subtle threat in the way he moves—a presence that hints at battles fought, scars earned, and secrets carried. He’s the kind of man most would crumble under, yet he walks through the world unbroken, a storm contained.
Imagining him shirtless is effortless, even though I’ve never seen him that way. I see the sun-kissed stretch of skin beneath the fabric, taut and precise, the subtle tension of muscles that speak of power held in control. Tattoos coil along his veins like hidden stories, each line a whisper I’m not meant to read. His jawline—sharp enough to slice through diamonds, unyielding and perfectly angled—demands attention even when his face is still.
The thought of it makes something stir low in my chest: a thrill, a pulse, a recognition of danger and desire all at once.
The man is hot, and we both know it. Twenty years older or not, that doesn’t make him any less of one.
“I have a wife,” he says at last, his voice snapping back into that self-righteous confidence he wears like armor.
I roll my eyes. “And an annoying kid. I know. I’m just saying—you seemed to have a lot of passion for me a second ago. And also,” I add coolly, reaching for his plate, “you didn’t wash your hands. And I wasn’t expecting you, so I’ve changed my mind—no eggs and bacon for you.” I tip his portion onto mine with the final movement.
“I see right through you, Estella,” he says, his tone steady but edged with irritation that simmers beneath the surface. “You’re trying to change the topic, but it doesn’t?—”
“I wasn’t trying to change anything,” I cut him off sharply, not even pretending to hide the anger simmering under my voice. “It was just a joke.”
The knife screeches faintly against the plate as I slice through the eggs, stabbing the fork deep into the yolk. The golden liquid bleeds out slowly, spreading across the white porcelain like a wound.
I lift the fork, spear a piece, and bring it to my lips. The sharp bite of salt and heat hits my tongue, but it does nothing to cut through the lingering bitterness that clings stubbornly, refusing to fade.
“A tragic accident in a popular local restaurant,” Cane pushes, his tone as sharp as the knife scraping across my plate. My eyes roll so hard it almost hurts. “Isn’t the job I’m giving you enough for your desires?”
A sigh escapes me, heavy and involuntary. The weight of his voice, his constant policing, drains the little energy I have left. For a second, I almost rest my face in my hands—until I remember the cooling eye patches beneath my eyes. It’s a miracle they’re still holding to my skin. I adjust them delicately with my fingertips, exhaling slowly before turning my face toward him.
“It was necessary,” I say, my tone calm and steady. “She was insulting us.”
His brow arches. “Was she, really?”
“Did I ever lie to you?” I question.
“Yes. Many times.”
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. The silence stretches for a beat as I search for a response that doesn’t sound weak. “It was only to protect myself and Dante, I promise,” I finally say, even though the words feel thinner than air.
“You’re lying,” he says simply, tilting his head as he studies me. The look in his eyes cuts deeper than the words ever could. “Again.”
I purse my lips, letting my hands fall to my sides in mock surrender. A small, playful smile tugs at my mouth. “Clean and careful,” I sing softly. “Just like you taught me.”
“Of course,” he replies dryly. “She tripped during her smoke break and fell to her death.”
