“Do you two know where the girl who lives here is?” he demanded.
The taller man frowned. “Uh… no. We thought maybe you were moving in.”
The shorter man blinked. “I… wait. I thought—” He paused, a crease forming between his brows. “No, never met whoever lived here.”
Eric tilted his head slightly. He didn’t need to hear more.
He could feel it—the fog in their minds. Like static in a radio signal. A memory scrubbed just enough to leave the edges raw and uncertain.
Kiki had been here.
And she’d erased herself so thoroughly, even those who might have been her friends at one time didn’t remember her.
Impressive.
And not something the Founders knew she could do. She had used that same talent on him. He realized now she had done it to protect her and Brie from Jeffries—and him from Jeffries wrath after the two girls escaped.
He wondered what else she was capable of now.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Without another word, he turned, gliding past Lyle and the two men without a glance. He descended the stairwell in measured steps, every movement calm, deliberate. Controlled.
Behind him, Lyle cursed and stomped after him, the door to Kiki’s apartment slammed shut behind them.
Above, the two neighbors stood staring after them, confused… and a little afraid.
“What the hell is your problem?” Lyle snapped as they hit the bottom step.
Eric didn’t answer.
Not directly.
He let a slow smile curl across his lips—cold and certain. The kind of smile that promised things Lyle couldn’t begin to understand.
“I’m just thinking,” Eric said, his voice an indistinct murmur, “that if Kiki or Nikos Aeto don’t killyou… I will.”
The rich scent of roasted garlic, tomatoes, and herbs hit her the moment she stepped off the last stair. It wrapped around her like a blanket—comforting and nostalgic in a way that nearly made her eyes sting.
She followed it into the kitchen, barefoot, her damp curls tucked behind her ears and her skin still tingling from the hot shower.
Nikos looked up from the counter just as she stepped into the doorway. His smile lit his entire face. For a moment, the chaos of the last few days faded into something quieter. Safer.
She blinked… then burst out laughing.
He was wearing an apron.
Not just any apron.
A black one that read in flaming red letters:
DON’T MESS WITH THE COOK —above a cartoon dragon torching a spit-roasted human.
She raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Should I be worried?”
He grinned, totally unbothered. “Only if you touch my spatula.”
Her gaze flicked to the counter—and she immediately wrinkled her nose. “Are those… vegetarian baked beans? For breakfast?”
