“Quiet, Clara,” I mutter to the empty kitchen, flicking the ‘Open’ button on the security console with my pinky finger because my palms are covered in butter and cracked pepper.
I’m standing in my kitchen—a cathedral of black marble, brushed steel, and recessed lighting that makes everything look like it’s waiting for a surgical procedure. It’s a chef’s kitchen, designed for precision. I like precision. I like the way a blade feels in my hand, whether I’m julienning a shallot or removing a man’s pinky finger.
The front door slams hard enough to vibrate the wineglasses in the pantry. Footsteps thunder down the hall—angry, heavy, and decidedly un-graceful.
“PETER HALE!”
I don’t turn around. I just slide a knob on the stove, the blue flame hissing to life with a satisfying whump.
“In the kitchen, Sister,” I call out, my voice smooth as silk over a bed of gravel. “Don’t trip on the rug. It’s Persian. It cost more than your car.”
Clara bursts into the room like a localised hurricane. She’s breathing hard, her face flushed a deep, angry rose. My sister. The only person in this world who shares my DNA and yet somehow inherited none of my common sense.
She looks like a disaster. Her hair—the same dark, midnight ink as mine—is a wild, frizzy mess, escaping the ponytail she’s shoved it into. Her eyes are a piercing, stormy blue, currently narrowed into slits that suggest she’d like to gouge mine out. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, looking every bit the righteous college student she pretends to be.
“Where is she?” she spits, slamming her fist onto the marble island. “I know she’s here. I saw her car two blocks away, parked like a goddamn abandoned toy.”
“Good morning to you too,” I say, cracking a third egg into a copper bowl with one hand. “You look lovely, by the way. Is ‘Active Threat’ the new aesthetic on campus? It suits you.”
“Peter. I am not joking.” She stalks around the island, her finger shaking as she points it at my chest. “Wendy is missing. Her phone is off. Her window is broken. And you’re standing here… making omelettes?”
“Scrambled,” I correct, whisking the eggs with arhythmic, metallic clink. “Low heat. Plenty of butter. It’s the secret to a life without regrets, Clara. You should try it. You’re far too high-strung. It’ll give you premature wrinkles.”
“I will kill you,” she whispers, her voice trembling with a mix of fury and genuine fear. “I will call the cops. I will tell the Council you’ve kidnapped a civilian.”
I stop whisking. I turn my head slowly, giving her the full weight of the gaze that makes grown men piss themselves in warehouses. I let the silence hang, heavy and suffocating, until she blinks.
“First of all,” I say, my voice dropping an octave, “don’t threaten me in my own kitchen. It’s tacky. Second, the Council doesn’t give a damn about a girl who stayed out past her bedtime. And third…”I gesture with the whisk toward the ceiling. “…she’s upstairs. Sleeping. She had a very… exhausting night.”
Clara’s face goes from red to a ghostly, sickly white in three seconds flat. It’s an impressive bit of biology. “You… you didn’t.”
“I did,” I say, turning back to the stove. I pour the eggs into the pan. They sizzle, a soft, welcoming sound. “And she was spectacular. Truly. I always knew she had a bit of a dark streak, but the way she begged? It was almost poetic.”
“You monster!” Clara lunges for me, her nails baring like claws.
I catch her wrists without even looking at her, my grip iron-tight but careful not to bruise—mostly because I don’t want to hear her complain about it later. I hold her there, a foot away from me, as I stir the eggs with a wooden spatula.
“Monster is such a tired word, Clara. Use your vocabulary. I’m an opportunist. A curator. A man who sees a masterpiece being neglected and decides to put it in a private collection.”
“She’s my best friend!” Clara sobs, trying to jerk her arms away. “How could you do this to me? To her?”
“I didn’t do it to you,” I say, letting her go and sliding the perfectly soft, yellow eggs onto a pre-warmed porcelain plate. I garnish them with a sprig of chives. “I did it for her. She’s been drowning in the boring, beige life you’ve helped her build. I just pulled her out of the water.”
I pick up the plate and a fork, finally facing my sister fully. I look her up and down—the messy hair, the tear-streaked face, the shivering shoulders.
“She’s fine, Clara. Better than fine. She’s finally awake.” I take a bite of the eggs. They’re perfect. “Now,” I say, gesturing toward the stairs with the fork, “you can go up and see her if you like. But be warned—she’s wearing my shirt, she smells like my bed, and she’s probably not going to thank you for the rescue.”
Clara stares at me, her mouth hanging open in horror.
“Go on,” I smirk, the cold, sharp wit of the Hale bloodline shining through. “But do try to be quiet. I’m planning on a very long, very loud breakfast once you’re gone.”
Clara doesn’t run for the stairs; she stomps. Every footfall on my white oak flooring sounds like a judge’s gavel, condemning me to a hell I’ve already bought and renovated.
“Wendy! Wendy,I’m coming!” she shrieks, her voice cracking as she rounds the corner of the banister.
I lean back against the marble island, the cool stone soaking into my lower back. I take another bite of the eggs. They really are a triumph. The chives add a necessary brightness to the decadence of the butter—much like a well-timed joke in a torture chamber.
My phone, resting next to a bowl of lemons, begins to vibrate. The caller ID isn’t a name; it’s a string of zeros.
