The kitchen door swings open under my palm.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
I grab a mug from the cabinet. The ceramic clinks hard against the counter.
She was apologizing. For singing like it's a crime. And you just stood there like a goddamn statue and then walked away without a single word.
The espresso machine hisses as I jam the portafilter into place. My movements are angry. But the anger is directed entirely inward.
"Good morning, Kristen." Two words. That's all it would have taken. Two fucking words.
But no. I don't do small talk. I don't do pleasantries. I observe, I analyze, I act when necessary. Words are tools for extracting information or giving orders. Not for... whatever that situation required.
She looked terrified.
The espresso drips into my cup, dark and bitter. I stare at it without seeing.
Not terrified of me. Terrified of being seen. Of being caught doing something human in a house full of monsters.
And what did I do? Confirmed every assumption she probably has about the calculating Sartori who watches everything and says nothing.
Asshole.
I take a long drink of the espresso. It burns down my throat. Good. I deserve it.
The problem is, I don't know how to be anything else. Lorenzo got the charm. Pietro got the authority that people respect instead of fear. Even Bruno, before everything, could make someone feel at ease with a well-timed joke.
Me? I got the ability to notice when someone's lying by the micro-expressions around their eyes. I got the pattern recognition that spots threats before they materialize. I got the analytical mind that makes me valuable to this family but absolutely useless at basic human interaction.
If I could be more...
The thought trails off. More what? More approachable? More warm? More like a normal person who knows how to respond when a woman embarrasses herself in front of him?
I set the empty cup in the sink harder than I should.
Kristen Thomas has been in this house for less than a day, and I've already made her apologize for things that don't require apologies.
She's going to spend the next two months tiptoeing around me like I'm a bomb about to detonate.
Which is fine. That's what people do around me.
But the image of her swaying her hips, eyes closed, completely lost in some terrible pop song is stuck in my head now.
And I don't get these kind of images stuck in my head.
Never.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kristen
The car rolls to a stop outside my building, and I grab my bag before Dante can come around to open my door.
"Thanks for the ride." I manage a smile that feels stretched too thin across my face.
Dante gives me a single nod.
I slip out of the car and shut the door behind me, already dreading the climb ahead. Our elevator has been broken since we moved in eight months ago. The super keeps promising to fix it. The super is a liar.
