28. LYLA
Chapter twenty-eight
S omething smelled heavenly.
Bacon?
Groggily, I blinked my eyes open. The room was dim, but the soft gray light told me it was daytime. Rain battered the tall windows. A steady downpour blurred the view of Central Park. The weather matched the dreariness of my mood.
I sat up, trying to remember where I was.
Right. Mr. Stalker’s penthouse.
I rubbed my hands over my face. My body felt boneless and sore all at once—like I’d run ten miles, then crashed.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept that hard.
I never slept like that, not even back home, and certainly not in a strange man’s bed after being kidnapped and delivered like a package with no return address.
I shoved the covers aside, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and got up. My hair was a mess, but I didn’t bother fixing it. If he was going to keep me prisoner, he could get used to me looking feral.
The scent in the air grabbed my attention again. Could he possibly be home already, and cooking again? My stomach growled, not caring who was cooking.
I quietly walked barefoot down the hallway and edged closer to the kitchen, staying just far enough back to watch without being seen.
Sure enough, he stood barefoot at the stove, with his broad back turned toward me, dressed in nothing but black joggers. There were so many more of his tattoos visible now. And, oh, was he built like a damn brick house.
A stack of waffles sat in the oven, staying warm. A bowl of sliced strawberries glistened beside the range. And bacon—thick, crisp, and perfect—was draining on a plate lined with paper towels. My mouth watered—and not just for the food.
He looked so at ease. So…normal.
“I know you’re standing there,” he said without turning around. “You planning to join me or just keep on staring?”
My heart jumped.
I stepped forward sheepishly. “Sorry. I was just trying to see who was in the kitchen.”
“Thought it might be the bacon,” he muttered. “People have killed for less, you know.” He nodded toward the coffee station. “Help yourself.”
The espresso machine was a high-end, pro-grade model that would’ve made Carmine weep with envy.
I moved to inspect it more closely, wondering why he ever bothered to go to Cipher at all.
The machine had everything—a steamer wand, a milk pitcher, and a hopper already filled with ground beans.
I steamed some milk first, then pulled the perfect double shot into the preheated mug, layering the milk just right to form a beautiful swirl of cream in the coffee.
When I looked up, he was watching me while whipping some cream by hand. With a metal bowl in one hand and a whisk in the other, he moved in tight, controlled circles. The muscles of his forearm flexed and tightened; the slow, steady rhythm was hypnotic.
My mind drifted as I finished making my cappuccino.
Don’t think about how those hands would feel on your hips.
Too late.
I blinked hard and turned away.
I carried my coffee to the counter across from him and lowered myself onto the barstool, continuing to study him.
What if this whole stalker thing was just the beginning? What if he really was just another version of Delgado—but quieter, smoother, and more twisted?
Maybe he collected women. Maybe he planned to keep me here and turn me into his next plaything.
Or maybe he liked to kill girls—strip them down, feed them breakfast, make them beg for mercy before—
“Whipped cream’s done,” he said.
I nearly jumped.
He grabbed the waffles from the oven and plated them like a fancy chef. Next he added a scoop of the fresh strawberries, a heaping dollop of whipped cream, two strips of crisp bacon, and a side of fluffy scrambled eggs.
“You slept like the dead,” he said as he set the plate down in front of me. “Didn’t think you’d sleep past ten, but here it is almost one. Guess breakfast is lunch now.”
“Breakfast is always good,” I said. “Day, night…anytime.”
He smirked and placed his plate on the island across from me.
As he leaned forward, something glinted against his chest—a silver pendant in the shape of a howling wolf, hanging from a thin chain.
It rested just above the cut of his pectoral muscle, the metal catching in the light every time he moved.
“Nice necklace,” I said, tilting my head for a better look.
His fingers brushed the charm briefly before he sat. “Just something I picked up a long time ago.” No elaboration, no explanation.
I let it drop, but the design suited him too perfectly to be random. A lone wolf…my very own stalker-wolf. Somehow, it fit.
He smirked and placed his plate on the island across from me.
I curled my fingers around the warm cappuccino, trying not to let my nerves show.
He didn’t sit right away—just stood there, scrolling through his phone like I wasn’t even there.
After a minute, he glanced up. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”
I tilted my head, forking a bite of waffle and pointing it at him. “You too. You know, unless you’re worried about being poisoned.”
His eyes flicked up, and he grinned—an actual smile that made tingles zing down my spine. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t see it coming. Poison’s too slow.”
I blinked.
My eyes dropped to the waffles on my plate. He’d even buttered them and drizzled syrup on top.
The man was terrifying.
And thoughtful.
Which was somehow worse.
What did he want?
Was this part of the game? Soften me up, make me trust him, then lock the doors and never let me out again?
Or maybe he’d already done everything he was going to do. Maybe this was it—this strange in-between space where I was neither prisoner nor guest. Neither safe nor in danger.
I took a sip of the rich cappuccino, licking the creamy foam from my lips.
He raised a brow and glanced down at my plate and then back up, giving me an impatient, questioning look.
So I put the bite in my mouth.
It was absurdly good, so I continued to eat.
Crispy edges, fluffy centers, and still warm. The strawberries were sweet and ripe. How he’d managed that in November, I had no idea. And the whipped cream? Perfectly airy. The eggs were soft, and the bacon was just the right crispiness.
“This is…divine,” I said before taking another bite. I let out a soft, involuntary moan of appreciation. “Okay, I’ll admit it. These might be the best waffles I’ve ever had.”
He didn’t look up from his phone. “Don’t act so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said, tilting my head. “Just…impressed. You’ve got the southern breakfast thing down. I didn’t peg you as the waffles-and-whipped-cream type.”
“I’m properly trained,” he said, swiping at something on his phone. “A real chef should be able to prepare anything.”
“Oh, so you’re a chef?” I teased, jabbing my fork in his direction. “That’s funny. I thought you were a mafia hit man or something. The kind of guy who kills for a living. I definitely wouldn’t have guessed…culinary arts.”
That made him laugh—and it was an honest one this time, deep and gravely and annoyingly attractive. He was laughing at me, but I didn’t even care.
I leaned into it. “Unless, of course, that’s just the headline of your résumé. You know, like the devil is in the details. I’m guessing there are line items for hacker, drug dealer, and assassin.”
He finally set the phone down and regarded me cooly. “If I didn’t have a full range of skills, you’d be dead by now.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Wow. Comforting.”
He took a sip of his coffee. “Just facts.”
I stabbed another bite of waffle and muttered, “My life was perfect before you walked into Cipher, sat down at my table, and ordered ‘ Coffee. Black. To go. Hold the bullshit. ’ You know, before you started following me around the city like some creepy-ass serial killer in a suit.”
At that, he didn’t even flinch. He took a bite of his waffle and chewed unhurriedly.
“Since you started stalking me, my life has turned into my own personal purgatory,” I added, shoving another forkful into my mouth.
He set his fork down and looked straight at me.
“The day you stepped into Ciro Delgado’s club, you ended the life you had.
Every performance you gave was an audition.
Every move you made on that stage told them how much you were worth.
You were advertising what a juicy piece of ass would cost the next highest bidder. ”
The words landed like a slap, and my fork fell from my fingers, clattering onto my plate.
“Don’t kid yourself,” he said sharply. “You were just a little lamb on a slow march to slaughter.”
I couldn’t speak. My cheeks flamed red hot.
He leaned back in his chair and said in a voice cold and calm, “You should be thankful I took an interest.”
He started counting on his fingers.
“I followed you home the night those assholes were waiting for you, knowing your routine. They’d already picked their alley. They would’ve mugged you, raped you, and left you for dead. And you didn’t even see them.”
Another finger. “The guy living below you? He was a convicted sex offender with a sealed record and political connections. His ex-wife went missing three years ago. Charges were dropped. You were next.”
Final finger. “And Delgado? He’d already picked you personally. Sent out a worldwide notice. I saw your name in his files. You were going to be the next girl he sacrificed to some foreign scumbag itching to fuck you into oblivion.”
He took another bite of egg, chewed, and swallowed.
“You’re lucky to be sitting here at all. Safe. Fed. Alive.”
I blinked. I wanted to scream, to deny it all—but I couldn’t. He’d said it so plainly, as if it were all just simple facts, like saving me had been an annoying responsibility.
So I did what I always did when I didn’t know how to react.
I went for sarcasm.
“Oh, right,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “So being raped and murdered by a man in a bespoke suit who knows how to make waffles is something I should be grateful for?”
He didn’t respond—just kept eating, as if I hadn’t thrown a dagger across the island.
I stared at him. Waiting. Daring him to tell me what came next.
But his attention slid back to his phone, and he started scrolling again.
With a huff, I picked up my fork and forced another bite past the tension in my throat, swallowing down the last of my eggs.
Then I slammed the fork onto the counter and asked flatly—
“So, am I your prisoner?”