I’ve been accused of worse.
When I place an empty plate in front of her, Lucia hides her trembling hands behind her back. She thinks I haven’t noticed her nerves. I see everything. I’m simply mirroring the acting skills I’ve learned from her.
Like how it’s easier to be feisty when the threat’s back is turned. “I’m allergic to eggs.”
I flip the eggs, jaw tight. “Then you should have asked the volunteer for an egg-free muffin at the shelter where you had breakfast this morning.”
The pop of the toaster drowns out her shocked huff. She stares at me with her mouth gaped and her brows arched as I butter the browned bread.
Stalking isn’t my forte. I merely used Carlisle’s intricate security system to track her movements in reverse. That’s how I discovered her favorite haunts aren’t boutique stores or gambling halls as Nico had warned after taking in her bare-bones apartment. It’s shelters where they feed the homeless, and playgrounds in the more refined areas of Carlisle.
Her movements sheet is all the proof I need to know that it won’t matter how much Lucia earns, her money will never be spent on herself.
After covering two slices of toast with salted tomato slices, I slide the eggs on top. When I push the plate close to Lucia’s almost bare thigh, she stares at it, confident it’s a trap. Maybe it is. Caring about someone not related to me by blood is the most dangerous thing I’ve done in years.
“Eat,” I say quietly. “You’re not leaving until you’ve eaten every crumb.”
She raises her eyes to mine. They’re guarded with an emotion she’s desperate to smother but too tired to hide. Then, tortuously slow, she plucks one slice of toast off the plate and veers it toward her bone-dry lips.
