Page 42 of Until the End

“Scout’s honor.” He gave a two-finger salute and left, shutting the door.

A second later, the hinges squeaked. “Hey, were you a Boy Scout?” she called after him.

“Nope.” He kept walking.

Once he heard the shower running, he went back up, collected her clothes that she’d left in a neatly folded pile with her unmentionables tucked in the middle, and grabbed a small black container from a shelf in the sanctum and the laptop.

Resisting the temptation to indulge his curiosity, he simply tossed her stuff in the machine.

Castle set the laptop in the kitchen on the counter where he could keep an eye on it—and Kit if she decided to hop on. He flipped open the black container and fished out two small GPS tracking devices—both shatterproof and waterproof. One he sewed into the lining of her jacket and the other into her satchel.

Kit was warming up to him, starting to let her guard slip, but Sanborn was right. She was skittish and might try something foolhardy like bolting. Desperation had a way of scrambling a person’s brain and driving them to recklessness.

He armed the security system and removed his holstered gun. His knees and the joints in his bad hand, the one he’d broken years ago, ached. Castle loved his job, but it didn’t love him back. His body constantly reminded him that he couldn’t do this shit forever.

As he went to sit at the eat-in island, he got the sense he was being watched.

Kit stood in the doorway, wearing his Bob Marley T-shirt. Excellent choice. His tee was old, soft, and swam on her with the stretched collar exposing a bare shoulder. The threadbare cotton was nearly transparent, and in the light, it was almost as if she were naked.

The mop of her golden-brown hair was damp and shiny. Her skin looked delicate, smooth. All cleaned up, she wasn’t supermodel stunning, but Lord, have mercy, she was pretty.

She flashed an awkward grin, the weariness leaving her eyes, and padded into the kitchen barefoot. “Do you have anything to eat? I’m starving.”

“I can heat up one of my mom’s lasagnas from the freezer.”

“Lasagna?” She twisted her mouth as if mulling it over.

Oh, please don’t tell him she was allergic to carbs, gluten, and sugar.

“Is there a meat sauce?”

“One of the best you’ll ever taste.”

She winced like he’d offered her human flesh.

Figured she was the worst of them. “Let me guess—you’re a meat-hating vegan.”

“I’m an animal-loving vegetarian.”

Same difference. “How about spaghetti?”

Kit smiled, her face lighting up brighter than sunshine, knocking the air from his lungs. “Sounds perfect.”

He set a pot of water to boil, took out his mixer with pasta attachment, and grabbed the fresh dough from the fridge. Working with small pieces, he sent the dough through the roller, producing golden ribbons.

“You’re making pasta from scratch?” She sounded like she didn’t think it was possible.

He was shooting for impressed, not incredulous. “Fresh stuff tastes better.”

“The mountain of muscle can cook.” She leaned in, resting her forearms on the counter, and he caught the scent of his shower gel on her. He liked it, her smelling like him. “Can I help?”

“I’ve got it.” To encourage her to open up and truly trust him, he had to do some sharing himself. “After I was discharged from the service, I had PTSD and went through an adrenaline therapy program for vets. Extreme sports during the day and culinary therapy at night. We made our own dinners. Turns out cooking is a great stress reliever.”

“Your PTSD was the reason you built the sanctum?”

He nodded. “I used to sleep in there on a shitty cot. Until I got better.”

“My brother suffered from depression. Recovery can be tough. Not that what you went through was the same, but I get it.”