“What are you doing here?” I demand.
He grabs them up by their handles, doesn’t answer me. Just walks past me like he pays rent and drops the bags on my bed through the doorless frame, and comes back.
“Just brought you some things,” he says finally.
“I don’t need things from you.”
“Yes you do.”
My teeth grind so hard I swear I taste blood. “You can’t just—”
“I can.” He leans against my counter, eyes tracking from my wet hair down to my bare legs. “Nice shorts.”
“Get out.”
“No.”
I exhale harshly. “I hate that word.”
“Right?Fucking terrible.”
“Can you go now? I’m trying to make dinner.”
He glances at the sandwich. “That’s not food. That’s depression between bread.”
“It’s what I have.”
“You have eggs. Meat. Vegetables.Actualingredients.”
“I don’t want to cook.”
His eyebrow raises. “Why not?”
I can’t tell him because cooking for over one hundred men is Gabriel’s usual punishment or that I had to do that most of my life since Baba died, so I lie.
“I just hate it, takes too long.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then pushes off the counter. “Move.”
“What?”
“Move, Ayla.”
I don’t. He steps closer, crowds me against the counter until I have no choice but to shuffle sideways. He takes my spot, opens the fridge, starts pulling things out.
“What are you doing?”
“Making you dinner.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want.” He sets the cutting board on the counter, pulls a knife. “You’re going to learn how to feed yourself properly.”
I stare at his back. At the way his shoulders move under his shirt as he chops up a green pepper. At the tattoos peeking out from his collar.
He’s a predator. A killer. And he’s making me dinner.
“Why do you care?” I ask quietly.
