And she’s… what, twenty-two? Twenty-three? Not even twenty-five, probably.
Too young. Too soft. Too damn innocent.
The kind of innocent that doesn’t survive long if it falls into the wrong hands.
The kind that makes something in me turn feral.
I can handle a lot of things.
I can’t handle the idea that someone hurt her, made her run away.
The potatoes are already done, smashed and crisped in the oven, garlic and rosemary clinging to them. I pull them out, set them on the counter, and drag in a slow breath through my nose.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps.
I keep my eyes on the pan because if I turn around too fast, I’m going to look at her like I’m starving again.
And I’m not going to do that.
Not unless I want to ruin everything.
She stops at the entrance to the kitchen area.
I plate the steaks, because my hands need something to do. I set the potatoes beside them, add a quick pile of green beans I cooked with too much butter, and then I finally turn.
Nova stands there in leggings and a long t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder like it has no idea what it’s doing.
The shirt is soft, worn. Dark. It looks like it’s been through a hundred washes and still decided to stay. The leggings cling to her thighs and hips like a sin.
My body reacts immediately.
Hard.
A hot, sharp pulse that hits my gut and spreads out like it owns me.
I grip the edge of the counter.
Her hair is still damp, curling in waves around her face. Her skin looks clean, warmer. Freckles stand out against the flush on her cheeks.
She looks like she belongs here.
And that thought is so dangerous it makes me want to swear.
Nova’s gaze flicks to my hands on the counter like she notices the tension in them, then back to my face.
“Dinner smells…” She hesitates. “Really good.”
“Yeah,” I manage.
My voice comes out rougher than I want.
She swallows, glances around, then steps closer to the table like she’s following a map.
I set the plates down. One in front of her. One in front of the chair across.
“Sit,” I say.
