And thoughtful.
Which was somehow worse.
What did he want?
Was this part of the game? Soften me up, make me trust him, then lock the doors and never let me out again?
Or maybe he’d already done everything he was going to do. Maybe this was it—this strange in-between space where I was neither prisoner nor guest. Neither safe nor in danger.
I took a sip of the rich cappuccino, licking the creamy foam from my lips.
He raised a brow and glanced down at my plate and then back up, giving me an impatient, questioning look.
So I put the bite in my mouth.
It was absurdly good, so I continued to eat.
Crispy edges, fluffy centers, and still warm. The strawberries were sweet and ripe. How he’d managed that in November, I had no idea. And the whipped cream? Perfectly airy. The eggs were soft, and the bacon was just the right crispiness.
“This is…divine,” I said before taking another bite. I let out a soft, involuntary moan of appreciation. “Okay, I’ll admit it. These might be the best waffles I’ve ever had.”
He didn’t look up from his phone. “Don’t act so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said, tilting my head. “Just…impressed. You’ve got the southern breakfast thing down. I didn’t peg you as the waffles-and-whipped-cream type.”
“I’m properly trained,” he said, swiping at something on his phone. “A real chef should be able to prepare anything.”
“Oh, so you’re a chef?” I teased, jabbing my fork in his direction. “That’s funny. I thought you were a mafia hit man or something. The kind of guy who kills for a living. I definitely wouldn’t have guessed…culinary arts.”
That made him laugh—and it was an honest one this time, deep and gravely and annoyingly attractive. He was laughing at me, but I didn’t even care.
I leaned into it. “Unless, of course, that’s just the headline of your résumé. You know, like the devil is in the details. I’m guessing there are line items for hacker, drug dealer, and assassin.”
He finally set the phone down and regarded me cooly. “If I didn’t have a full range of skills, you’d be dead by now.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Comforting.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Just facts.”
I stabbed another bite of waffle and muttered, “My life was perfect before you walked into Cipher, sat down at my table, and ordered ‘Coffee. Black. To go. Hold the bullshit.’ You know,before you started following me around the city like some creepy-ass serial killer in a suit.”
At that, he didn’t even flinch. He took a bite of his waffle and chewed unhurriedly.
“Since you started stalking me, my life has turned into my own personal purgatory,” I added, shoving another forkful into my mouth.
He set his fork down and looked straight at me. “The day you stepped into Ciro Delgado’s club, you ended the life you had. Every performance you gave was an audition. Every move you made on that stage told them how much you were worth. You were advertising what a juicy piece of ass would cost the next highest bidder.”
The words landed like a slap, and my fork fell from my fingers, clattering onto my plate.
“Don’t kid yourself,” he said sharply. “You were just a little lamb on a slow march to slaughter.”
I couldn’t speak. My cheeks flamed red hot.
He leaned back in his chair and said in a voice cold and calm, “You should be thankful I took an interest.”
He started counting on his fingers.
“I followed you home the night those assholes were waiting for you, knowing your routine. They’d already picked their alley. They would’ve mugged you, raped you, and left you for dead. And you didn’t even see them.”
