"Noted."
"And I'm leaving as soon as the storm clears."
"Also noted."
"And if you try to carry me anywhere else without my explicit permission, I will bite you."
That didn't sound as threatening as she probably hoped. His mouth twitched despite himself. "Understood."
She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for the door handle, then paused and turned back to look at him.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "For checking on me. Even though you're incredibly infuriating about it."
He held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary.
"You're welcome," he said. "Even though you're incredibly stubborn about accepting help."
Her lips curved into something that was almost a smile. "That's fair."
She got out of the truck. He followed with her bags, his mind already running through logistics—the guest room would need fresh sheets, she'd need warm clothes, he should probably make soup or something humans ate during storms—while some deeper part of him, the part he was trying very hard not to acknowledge, settled into something that felt dangerously like satisfaction.
She was here. She was safe. She was under his roof.
And the storm wasn't letting up anytime soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Edie had seen surgical theaters with more personality than Tarek's condo. The space was massive, with tall ceilings and those floor-to-ceiling windows she'd noticed from outside, now revealing nothing but darkness and swirling snow. A black-tiled fireplace dominated one wall, crackling with the fire he must have left burning before he came to rescue her like some kind of massive green knight in a shining pickup truck.
Everything was black or white. The walls were white. The wood floors were stained black. The perfectly centered wool rug was white. The huge furniture was black leather. But it wasn't just the architecture or the color scheme that made her brain short-circuit.
It was the organization.
Every single thing in his living room had a place, a specific designated location that had clearly been selected with military precision. The remote controls—there were three of them—sat in a black leather caddy on the white marble coffee table, arranged from largest to smallest. The two white throw pillows on theenormous sectional sofa were positioned at perfect forty-five-degree angles to the corners.
She looked over at the kitchen at the left of the open floor plan. A white ceramic tray contained exactly four apples—two red, two green—arranged in an alternating pattern. The paper towel roll was folded into a point at the end, like hotel toilet paper. The knife block had been placed precisely three inches from the edge of the counter, which she only knew because there was a small strip of black tape marking the spot.
Black tape.
"You have tape marks," she said.
He was still standing by the door, holding her bags and watching her. "What?"
"Tape marks. On your counter. To show where the knife block goes."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "It ensures consistency."
"It ensures—" She couldn't finish the sentence. Her voice had gotten too high. "Tarmek. That's not... people don't..."
She gave up and looked down at her feet instead, which were currently creating a small puddle on his pristine hardwood floor. She'd actually gotten as far as stepping out of the truck after he went back to the camper but the snow came up to her knees and she'd decided even her stubbornness had its limits. Now her boots were soaked through, her socks squelching with every micro-movement, and she should probably take them off before she destroyed his presumably labeled floorboards.
She kicked off her boots and left them where they landed—one on its side near the wall, one upright and facing the wrongdirection roughly three feet away. The sound he made was barely audible. A strangled inhale that probably only dogs and other orcs could hear. But his face... His face nearly killed her.
It was like watching someone witness a crime in slow motion. His eyes tracked to the boots, widened slightly, then developed a fixed quality that suggested his brain was actively struggling to process the wrongness of what he was seeing. His hands flexed at his sides. His jaw tightened so hard she could see the muscles bunch under his olive skin.
He didn't say anything. He just... looked at the boots. And kept looking. Like they might spontaneously arrange themselves properly if he stared hard enough.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
