Butcher crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s pasta in the cabinet.”
She looked offended.
“You eat pasta?”
“Princess,” he drawled, “I live in Mississippi, not a cave.”
Her eyes narrowed at him again, and he was starting to enjoy that look a little too much. “You enjoy irritating people, don’t you?”
He shrugged, “Nope, it seems that I only enjoy irritating you so far. Most everyone else seems to like me.”
She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like asshole, and Butcher grinned despite himself. “Or they tolerate you,” she shot back. Christ—this woman seemed to have comebacks for every damn thing that he said. He couldn’t remember the last time somebody stood in his kitchen arguing with him like they belonged there. He was sure that the answer was never.
Once he left the Bastards behind and built a life designed specifically to avoid attachment, he led a pretty quiet life. Butcher learned a long time ago that people left or betrayed you—sometimes both. Hell, he’d learned that lesson the hard way, so why the hell did having her here feel less like an inconvenience and more like something dangerous in an entirely different way?
Princess finally settled on making pasta, though she looked personally insulted by the limited ingredients in his kitchen the entire time. “You season absolutely nothing,” she informed him.
“I season plenty,” he insisted.
“With black pepper,” she deadpanned.
“That’s a seasoning,” he argued.
“Your lack of spices is depressing,” she mumbled. Butcher barked out a laugh before he could stop it—a real one this time. It was the kind he hadn’t heard come out of himself in years. Princess froze slightly at the sound, like she hadn’t expected it either. Hell, neither had he.
The room went quieter after that, and she turned back toward the stove, but he caught the way her shoulders loosened a fraction. And damn if something about that didn’t punch him straight in the chest.
He pushed away from the counter before he could think too hard about it. “You hungry or just insulting my kitchen for sport?”
“I can multitask,” she sassed.
“Clearly,” he grumbled. She plated the food a few minutes later, sliding one of the bowls toward him carefully, like she wasn’t entirely sure where they stood. But the truth was, neither did he.
Butcher sat across from her at the small kitchen table, studying her while she twisted pasta onto her fork with the kind of elegance that screamed money. Everything about her screamed money. Even wearing the baggy T-shirt and leggings that she had changed into, she looked expensive.
“You keep staring at me,” she said without looking up.
“No, I don’t,” he lied. That made her glance up, finally, and he could feel the tension in the air between them. It was like a conversation between them balanced on the edge of something neither of them understood.
Butcher took another bite before speaking again. “You running from somebody?” Her entire body went still. Years ago, he might’ve missed it, but now he saw everything.
Princess set her fork down carefully. “That’s a pretty personal question.”
“I feel that I have a right to know if you’re going to be staying at my place until I get your car fixed. I mean, if you’re bringing trouble to my door, then I should know about it, right?” he asked.
Her eyes held his across the table, cool and guarded. “You always interrogate women you bring home?”
He leaned back slightly in his chair. “You always avoid answering simple questions?”
“You answer my question first,” she said quietly.
Butcher’s jaw flexed. “You don’t want to hear what I do to women that I bring home with me.”
“Is that your way of telling me that you’re a serial killer and that you’re going to kill me in my sleep, chop me up, and bury me in your backyard?” she asked.
“Um, that’s pretty specific,” he said.
She shrugged, “Well, I love watching true crime shows,” she said. “I guess I have a flair for all things gruesome. “But you don’t have to answer my question,” she insisted. “I’m afraid that I don’t want to know what you do with women you bring back here.” The problem was, he wanted to tell her. He wanted to crack open ten years’ worth of silence and let somebody finally see the ugly parts underneath him.
