Page 8 of Working for the Enemy

I shrug, leaning back against the vinyl. "Must have lost my appetite after being manhandled out of my own car."

The waitress’s pen freezes. Her eyes dart between the two of us, widening with genuine alarm. She looks directly at me. "Honey, are you okay?"

"Yes," Kane growls out before I can answer, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

I roll my eyes dramatically, deliberately breaking eye contact with him to look at the waitress. "She was asking me, Big Guy. But yes, I'm fine. Trust me, it's nothing I haven’t dealt with before."

Kane grumbles at that, a low, threatening sound vibrating from his chest. There's something dark and strangely possessive in it, a fiercely protective edge that catches me completely off guard. He turns his attention back to the waitress, who is still trying to assess the situation.

"Bring us the loaded hashbrowns, a stack of pancakes, the bacon and egg platter, biscuits and gravy, and a side of french toast," Kane orders smoothly, not even glancing at the menu. "And coffee, water, milk, and orange juice."

The waitress scribbles furiously, then eyes me up again, silently asking if I’m okay to be left alone with the rude, growly man. I appreciate her concern, but I give her a nod and a smile.

I stare at the empty space she left behind, then look back at the mountain of a man sitting across from me. "Wow," I breathe, a wry smirk tugging at my lips. "And here I was wondering how you got all those muscles. Must be the breakfast of champions."

The second the words leave my mouth, a sudden wave of heat rushes up my neck and floods my cheeks. Oh, great. I just basically told the brooding man currently cornering me that he's hot. I clear my throat and look out the window, praying the diner's dim lighting hides my sudden flush.

When the food finally arrives, it requires two separate trays. The waitress unloads plates until the table is completely buried under a mountain of carbs and protein. I wait for Kane to grab a fork, but instead, he uses his massive hands to slide every single plate, glass, and mug over to my side of the table.

I stare at the feast, completely paralyzed. My jaw drops. I fumble for words, looking from the towering stack of pancakes to his unreadable face. "I... I really wasn’t planning on eating seven breakfasts today, Kane."

"Take the job offer," he says, his voice steady, leaving no room for argument. "And I'll pay for all of it."

I narrow my eyes, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. "And what’s keeping me from just walking out right now? Leaving you with a massive bill and no employee?"

"You're free to do whatever you want, Marlowe," he replies, leaning back against his seat. "But I'll just keep chasing after you."

The words are meant to be a stubborn reassurance, but they hit me like a physical blow. Chasing after me. My mind violently corrects the context, flashing to the men who are actually hunting me down. The men who won't stop until they find me.

Suddenly, the diner noises fade into a dull, underwater hum. The walls feel like they're closing in, the air turning thick and unbreathable. The edges of my vision fray into a terrifying, creeping darkness. Not now, please, not here.

"Marlowe."

My name sounds distant, echoing through a fog. Then, a sudden, searing warmth envelops my hands.

I blink hard, forcing the darkness backward. The fog slowly clears, and I realize Kane is no longer sitting across from me. He’s slid into my side of the booth, his muscled frame anchoring me against the wall. His huge, warm hands are wrapped securely around my trembling ones, holding them steady.

"Breathe, Marlowe," he commands, his voice surprisingly gentle, easing the storm raging in my head. "Just breathe. In and out. I've got you."

I look down at our joined hands, then up into his dark blue eyes. For a single, fleeting second, the walls I've spent years building come crashing down. I give in to the overwhelming sense of safety he carries around him like armor. I let out a shaky breath, letting his warmth steady my racing heart.

A moment later, reality snaps back into place. Awareness returns, and with it, a burning flush of embarrassment. I pull my hands back, smoothing down my jacket as I try to laugh it off, though it comes out sounding thin.

Kane reads the rigid shift in my posture instantly. Without a word, he slides out of the booth and moves back to his own seat, giving me the physical space I desperately need. But his dark blue eyes never leave my face. He’s assessing me, analyzing the cracks in my armor, and I can practically see the million questions swirling in his head.

I brace myself for the interrogation. I wait for him to demand to know why I panicked and what I'm running from.

Instead, Kane slowly places his right hand over his heart. It's a solemn, quiet gesture—like a soldier pledging his allegiance on a battlefield.

"I will never harm you, Marlowe," he says. It is the softest, most genuine voice I have ever heard from him, devoid of all his usual gruffness. "I want to protect you from whatever put that fear in your eyes."

My breath catches in my throat. Nobody has ever said something like that to me. Nobody has ever offered to stand between me and the dark.

An awkward, heavy silence stretches between us. Neither of us seems to know how to break the sudden gravity of the moment. The tension is palpable, suffocating in a completely different way now. I need to break it before I dissolve into tears.

I clear my throat, looking down at the untouched spread. "Well," I say, my voice louder than necessary, "if you're going to pledge your allegiance, you're going to have to help me out with this buffet."

Kane doesn't move. He just keeps staring at me with that intense, unblinking gaze.