“More soda?” Pierce finally asks like he has to.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. He nods once, then stands, taking his plate and Beckett’s to the sink. After a moment of paralysis, I follow with mine and Liam’s.
Pierce turns on the faucet, the rush of water filling the void between us. I gather the remaining plates from the table, my hands trembling slightly as I stack them. His back is to me, shoulders rigid beneath his T-shirt. I catch myself leaning toward him just to take in his scent and quickly look away, disgusted with myself.
The logical part of my brain knows I should feel nothing but revulsion for him. This is the man who killed my brother. The man whose actions destroyed what little safety I had. But no, here I am filling my lungs with his scent.
I edge closer to the sink, stacking plates between us. His nostrils flare as I pass, like he’s trying to catch my scent despite his injured nose. He turns suddenly with a wet plate in his hands, and a wave of sudsy water sloshes right into my middle.
We both freeze, staring at the wet mark on my T-shirt.
“Shit.” Pierce snaps the towel off his shoulder and steps into me. He holds my hip and dabs at my shirt.
I should pull away, bark at him, tell him to keep his hands off me. If I move, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I can’t be going into heat, that’s impossible—it’s way too early—but that’s what my body feels like. That deep hunger, that need churning between my legs.
He looks up, the bruises under his eyes making him look pathetic and wounded and lost.
The sound of footsteps saves us both. Liam appears in the doorway, pausing when he sees us standing there, still and silent like a startled deer. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in the scene, my wet shirt, Pierce with the towel, his hand on my hip.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Fine,” Pierce says too quickly. He fumbles the dishtowel, handing it off to me like it’s evidence. “I’m just going to get the trash now.” He yanks open a cabinet under the counter and pulls out the whole trashcan.
“You can just take the bag,” Liam calls, but Pierce is already out the back door.
The moment he’s gone, I feel my entire body collapse in on itself, shoulders dropping from their tense position near my ears, lungs finally expanding to take in a full breath. Instantly, I register the absence of Pierce’s scent.
Liam watches me with those observant eyes that make me feel like he can see straight through to all my secrets.
“Pierce is in a bad mood,” Liam says finally, a hint of apology in his voice.
I look down at the damp towel in my hands and realize I’m shaking. Not from fear or even anger, but from something else entirely. Something I have no right to feel for the man who destroyed everything I loved.
“I’m fine,” I lie, and turn back to the sink full of dishes, desperate for something to do with my hands.
“I have something for you.” Liam puts his hand on my back and turns me toward the counter. His hand is warm and steady.
“We watched you drawing on that light wall today,” Liam says, moving cutting boards and utensils to the sink and then wiping his hands on the dish towel Pierce abandoned. “You have a good eye.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I didn’t think anyone was watching when I got lost in that wall of light and color. “I was just playing around.”
He pulls a sleek tablet out of a zippered pouch. “Here,” he says, setting it on the counter between us. “My old iPad. I upgraded a few months back, and this one’s just collecting dust.”
I stare at it, uncomprehending. “What?”
“You should have it.” He slides it closer to me. “For your art.”
“I don’t do art.”
He smiles in a way that completely unmakes me, like if I just listen to what he says the whole world will make sense.
“I can’t accept that.” The words come out sharper than I intend. Gifts aren’t free. Papa taught me that lesson early and often.
“It’s literally just sitting in a drawer,” Liam says with a casual shrug that doesn’t quite mask his intentness. “I’ve already transferred everything off it. It’s got Procreate installed. That’s a pretty good drawing app. And Canva too.”
“I don’t know anything about digital art.” My voice softens despite myself. The tablet gleams under the kitchen lights, tempting and terrifying all at once.
“I could show you the basics,” he offers. When I still hesitate, he adds, “Think of it as recycling. Better than it ending up in a landfill, right?”
