I lunge after him, but before I get more than a few steps—“Rory.”
I stop mid-stride. Look over my shoulder. Raphael watches me with that look.The one that says,I know exactly how your mind works. Do not test me right now.
I roll my shoulders, making a show. “What’s the magic word?”
His stare flattens. “Now.”
Bastard.
Cracking my knuckles, I turn toward Briella, who’s still standing there, watching, bemused. Raphael shifts his attention to her. “What do you want for breakfast?”
Her hazel eyes flick toward me. Calculating.
I lift a brow and wag my fingers, inviting her to try me.Come on, Firecracker. Give me a challenge.
She tilts her head, considering. Then her lips curl up just a little like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Belgian waffles. Loaded with strawberries. And eggs Benedict.”
Oh. I like her.
I grin, slow and sharp. “Fancy. Anything else?” I give her more than enough opportunity.
“Orange juice.”
“Fresh-squeezed?”
She lifts a hand, forming it into a hard-clutching grip. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I can’t wait to get her in the sack again.
“Naturally,” I add.
“We have a full stock from the harvest,” Raphael reminds me of our last farmer’s market haul.
I stretch my arms over my head, popping my joints. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Hope you’re hungry, Firecracker.”
She hums, but her attention is already drifting toward Jude and Raphael. The trusted ones. I don’t follow them as they head into the guest room. Instead, I linger just outside the door.
Raphael is speaking low. Briella murmurs something, and then, she gasps.
I don’t press closer, don’t give myself away. Just listen, tracking every shift in her breath, every little noise. Raphael is giving her something. Something important.
A little jealousy pulses in my ribs. Not the deep, bitter kind, just the kind that makes my fingers itch.
I want her noises. I want her breathless.
Later.
For now, I head downstairs to the kitchen, rolling my shoulders, cracking my neck. Belgian waffles and eggs Benedict. A fun challenge, but nothing I can’t handle.
I grab ingredients from the fridge: eggs, butter, heavy cream, a fat handful of fresh strawberries. Slice them up, sugar them lightly.
The scent of warm yeast drifts through the kitchen as I prep the waffle batter from scratch, my mind half on the task, half on what’s happening upstairs.
Briella, standing in that room, clutching that sheet.
Her soft gasps. The way she holds herself—small but not weak.
I tap my fingers against the counter, rolling my tongue over my teeth.
I’m not done with you yet, Firecracker.
