Page 62 of Last Man Standing

Yes friggin’ please.

I set the mug under the spout and wait for the machine to start brewing. Peeking back in the direction I came, I silence my breathing and prick my ears… waiting… listening… hoping against all hope Arabella Aster doesn’t enjoy her morning coffee at five-forty-three a.m.

It takes only a few beats of my heart, four to be precise, before hot water makes its way through crushed beans and the scent of rich, strong coffee permeates the air. Twenty-something beats after that, the machine beeps and announces completion, so I sweep up the mug and bring it to my lips.

“I’m not saying you can’t use that mug, but⁠—”

“Argh!” I spin and slam my back to the counter, burning my hand as coffee sloshes over the side of the cup. Hissing and jolting, which only leads to more spilled coffee, I whimper and lock eyes with that man from last night. The older one, though not old by any standards. The one who stood with Arabella. The one whose lips are shaped exactly like Sebastion’s.

“Sorry.” Paul Jameson folds his arms and settles with his muscular shoulder against the door frame. He crosses his ankles and looks me up and down with a smile I know for a damn fact DNA passed down to his son, too. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just saying…” He tips his chin in my direction. “I’m not saying you can’t use that mug. But it’s my wife’s favorite, so⁠—”

“Jesus!” I rush to the sink and tip my beloved coffee out. I didn’t get to drink a single sip. Barely even got to sniff it. Flipping the faucet on and rinsing the beehive mug, I make damn sure I clean every single drop of coffee from the inside and out, then I set it exactly where I found it and turn back to the man.

But this time, he’s inside the room instead of in the doorway, settled against the counter opposite mine with his arms folded across a broad chest.

He chuckles, soft and throaty. Quiet, like he, too, would rather not wake anyone else. “You’re jumpy, huh?”

Ya fucking think?

“You can use the black mug.” He tilts his chin toward the drying pile. “No one uses that. No one would care if you borrowed it.”

If no one uses it, why is it on the drying rack?

“I-I’m good.” I inch to my right, skirting the counter if only to maintain distance between that man and myself. “I’ll get out of your space and⁠—”

“Please stay.” He drops his hands, nixes his taunting smile, and wanders across to the coffee machine I’ve already abandoned. Picking up the black cup and setting it beneath the spout, he peeks inside the top of the machine, opens the drawer and takes out another of the same pod I already used, then he starts the machine and replaces what I already threw away. “Don’t run away, Ms. Castro. I won’t hurt you. I won’t even interrogate you, though I know my wife intends to.”

“Oh, well…” I swallow the lumpy nausea stuck in the base of my throat. “That’s, uh…” Wow. “Thanks for the warning.”

He chuckles. When the machine beeps, he grabs the newly filled mug and brings it to the table in the middle of the room. He doesn’t hand it to me, doesn’t even pretend to try. He simply sets it on a stone coaster, meets my eyes for a long beat, then he backs away, selects another mug, and repeats the process.

Not the beehive mug.

“Sit, Scarlett.”

“No, I⁠—”

“I insist,” he orders. “Drink your coffee. Spend time with me.”

21

SEBASTION

ONE SPY. TWO SPIES. THREE SPIES. FOUR.

Ifeel her the instant she wakes. I feel that loss the moment she crawls out of bed. Even with my eyes closed and my best attempt at fake-sleeping, I know when she’s near me, and I definitely know when she’s not.

But I use the darkness to my advantage. I lie in the shadows, moderate my breathing, and while she sneaks across my room, I watch her through barely slit eyes.

My heart aches every time she sniffles. My gut jumps every time she whimpers. Does she even know she’s crying? My palms itch every time she peeks back my way. But my instincts, my battle-worn war-sharpened instincts make my ears roar.

Because she’s sneaking… where?

To get a closer look at my mother while she sleeps? To search my home and broadcast the things she finds with the phone she made damn sure to slide into her pocket? Will she run outside in nothing but my hoodie and draw the hungry eyes of a dozen soldiers?

The instant she slips into the hall and closes the door at her back, I shove off my bed and snatch up last night’s pants. I tear them along my legs and jam my feet into my boots, even without socks. Charging around to my bedside table, I snatch up my Glock, fist it in my left hand, and then I pray with every fiber of my being that she has a damn good reason for creeping around my home.

If she goes anywhere near my parents’ room, I’m gonna have to put a bullet between her eyes.