A shiver goes through me as I step out of his car without turning back. He’s right. If Rowan is herewhen I finish, I’ll get back into his car, because I want him, and if there’s a version of this arrangement where I take what I need without owing more than I can give, then I’ll seize it with both hands.
It’s not a relationship. It’s a transaction.
And I can live with that.
9
The rhythm of my knife striking the cutting board creates a steady background pulse to the chaos of the kitchen.
Chop, slide, gather, repeat.
My hands move without conscious thought, muscle memory guiding the blade through onions, peppers, and potatoes while the din of the diner’s dinner rush filters through the swinging doors. Grease hangs thick in the air, coating my skin, while the heat from the grill draws sweat down my back beneath the stained black T-shirt and apron.
Wednesday at Beacon on Beacon is predictable, demanding, and the kind of distraction my mind needs after several days in a row of Rowan poppingup at random to give me rides, followed by me riding him.
After years of denial, my body seems hell-bent on making up for lost time, and the Alpha is my catnip, however much I want to deny it.
“Order up!” The cook’s shout cuts through the clatter of pans, followed by the slap of a bell. “Ash, I need those veggies yesterday!”
My knife picks up speed, blade flashing as I scrape the peppers into a metal bowl with the flat edge.
The vibration of my phone against my thigh almost goes unnoticed in the constant stimulation of the kitchen. When it buzzes a second time, insistent, I pause mid-slice, a sense of unease trickling through me.
No one calls during my shifts. Not even Lena.
The phone buzzes a third time.
My boss, Hector, takes his attention off the grille to look at me, his thick brows drawing together. Sweat beads on his upper lip as he flips a row of burgers with practiced efficiency. “Problem?”
“No.” I slide the knife down, wiping my hands on my apron as I turn away. The weight of his stare burns between my shoulder blades as I fish my phone from my pocket.
The screen lights up with Lena’s name, and mychest constricts. She knows better than to call during work hours unless it’s an emergency.
I hit accept and hold the phone to my ear, the plastic warm on my skin. “Lena?”
The background noise on her end is muffled, but I catch the sound of unfamiliar voices, deep and authoritative. I grip the phone tighter, nails digging into the case.
Her voice comes through the speaker, sounding thin. “Ash, there are police at the apartment. They’re asking questions.”
My blood runs cold, turning to ice in my veins. Police. At our apartment. Every instinct screams danger.
“About what?”
“Danny,” she whispers. “They found his wallet with our address written inside.”
The knife I left on the cutting board gleams under the fluorescent light, but in my mind, a different blade takes its place, a different night, blood pooling on plastic.
“Stay calm. I’m coming home now,” I say, steady even as panic surges through me. “Don’t say anything else until I’m there. You’re a minor, so they can’t question you without me present.”
“They want to know where you were last Friday night.”
The night I cut a man’s throat while a stranger coached me through it.
“Twenty minutes.” I end the call, shoving the phone back into my pocket.
I untie my apron with numb fingers.
Hector tracks me as I move toward the back door. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
