Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lettie
When I returned from my mother’s room, the kitchen felt different. Quieter. The air had shifted somehow, like something had changed while I was gone.
Brock wasn’t leaning against the counter anymore.
He’d moved the plates to the table, setting them next to each other instead of across from one another. Close enough that our elbows would brush when we ate. Close enough that I’d feel the heat of his body through the entire meal.
He’d chosen our drinks and placed them beside the plates, pulling out the chair next to his. My throat tightened. Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in my chest, spreading through my ribs like heat from a fire I hadn’t known I needed.
He’d set the table for us.
Such a small thing. Such a simple gesture. But no one had ever done that for me before. No one had ever thought to prepare something for me while I was taking care of someone else. No one had ever considered that I might need care too.
I stopped in the doorway. Frozen. I couldn’t make myself move forward, afraid if I did, this moment might end.
This fragile, unexpected tenderness might shatter, and I’d be left with the reality that men like Brock Davis didn’t do things like this.
Didn’t think about comfort or proximity or whether someone might need a glass of water waiting for them.
But he had.
He was looking at me now. Those dark eyes reading me the way he always did, like I was a book written in a language only he understood.
“You set the table,” I said quietly. My voice came out softer than I intended. More vulnerable.
“Yeah.”
One word. But the way he said it. The way he watched me. Like this was normal. Like this was what he did. Like taking care of me was as natural as breathing.
I moved into the kitchen slowly. My legs felt unsteady. My heart was doing something strange in my chest, beating too fast, too hard. Like it was trying to tell me something my brain refused to acknowledge.
I sat down in the chair he’d pulled out. The one he’d chosen for me. And when I looked at him, really looked at him, I saw something in his expression that made my breath catch.
Possession, yes. That was always there. That dark, consuming need to own and claim and keep.
But underneath it, beneath all that intensity and violence and barely controlled hunger, something else.
Tenderness.
He took a bite of the stir fry. His eyes closed briefly, and a low sound of appreciation rumbled in his chest.
“This is fucking incredible,” he said.
The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. I’d been cooking for years. I knew I was good at it. But hearing it from him. Watching the genuine pleasure on his face as he ate something I’d made. It mattered more than I realized.
“Thank you,” I said.
I picked up my fork and pushed food around my plate, taking small bites I barely tasted. My mind was spinning, racing, trying to process what was happening here. What this meant.
He’d set the table.
He’d waited for me.
He was sitting here eating lunch with me like we were a couple. Like this was normal. Like we did this every day.
“You okay?” he asked.
I set my fork down and took a deep breath, letting the question I’d been holding back finally surface.
“What about me?” I asked.
His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Everything inside me felt too tight. Too exposed. Like I was standing naked in front of him and he could see every scar, every wound, every broken piece I’d spent years hiding.
“If I accept your claim—”
“Baby, there is no accepting it. You are my old lady, my queen.”
The words hit me with force. My gaze snapped to his. Heat flooded my face. Anger and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
“What if I don’t want to be claimed? What if I don’t want a prospect following me around? Do I not get a say in my own life?”
He set his fork down and turned to face me fully, taking my hands in his. His palms were warm. Rough. Calloused from years of violence and motorcycle grips and God knew what else.
“Baby, this war just started. We don’t know enough about who’s running it or what their end game is. I need you protected.”
“And you don’t think I can protect myself?”
I’d been protecting myself my entire life. I’d survived my mother. Survived isolation. Survived being different and dark and wrong in ways that would horrify most people.
“When I arrived in Nebraska, the fight was already there. A lot of men died. Kronos died.” His voice dropped, roughened. “He couldn’t protect himself. A man who grew up in this life. A man people feared.”
He brought my knuckles to his lips and kissed them gently. The gesture was so at odds with everything else about him. So tender it made my chest ache.
“It’s not about strength. It’s about power. And the people who want it will do whatever they have to in order to secure it. That puts you at risk.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to push back against the idea that I needed anyone watching over me. That independence I’d fought so hard for felt like it was slipping through my fingers.
But the truth was more complicated than that.
The truth was, I was tired. So fucking tired of being alone. Of carrying everything by myself. Of never having anyone who gave a damn whether I lived or died.
“How long?” I asked.
“Until we know the threat is neutralized.”
“And if it never is?”
“Then you get used to having a shadow.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin. “I’m not trying to cage you, Lettie. I’m trying to make sure you survive.”
The weight of his words settled between us. Heavy. Suffocating. Real.
I pulled my hand away and picked up my fork again. Took another bite even though I still couldn’t taste anything. My mind was working. Processing. Trying to figure out what this meant. What I was agreeing to.
He went back to his own plate. Didn’t push. Didn’t demand an answer. Just let me sit with it. Let me think.
The silence stretched between us. Not uncomfortable. Just present. Heavy with unspoken things.
I watched him eat. Studied the way his jaw worked. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his hands held the fork with surprising delicacy for someone who lived such a violent life.
He was beautiful in a brutal way. All hard edges and dangerous intensity. The kind of man who should terrify me.
The kind of man who did terrify me.
Just not in the way he should.
“Where’d you learn to cook like this?” he asked, breaking the silence.
The question caught me off guard.
“Cookbooks, recipes I found online,” I said quietly. “A lot of trial and error.”
I took another bite. Chewed slowly. Tried to focus on the food instead of the way he was looking at me. Like I was something precious. Something worth protecting.
“You’re staring,” I said without looking up.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re fucking beautiful.”
My eyes met his. Something flickered in my chest. Surprise maybe, disbelief. A desperate, pathetic hope that maybe he meant it.
“I’m serious,” he continued. “You’re sitting here in your kitchen, eating lunch, looking distracted as hell. And all I can think about is how fucking perfect you are.”
“I’m not perfect.” I picked up my fork again and took another bite, but my hands were shaking slightly. My heart was racing.
“You’re perfect for me,” he said, digging into his plate again.
We finished eating in comfortable silence. The kind that felt earned rather than awkward. When I stood to clear the plates, he stood with me. Our movements synchronized in a way that shouldn’t have been possible for two people who barely knew each other.
He carried his plate to the sink. I followed with mine. Our shoulders brushed as we stood side by side at the counter, and the contact sent electricity through my skin.
“I’ll wash,” he said.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Something about those three words made my throat tight. I want to. Not because he had to. Not because I asked. Because he wanted to be here, in my kitchen, washing dishes, being domestic and normal and everything I’d never had with anyone.
I grabbed a dish towel and stood beside him. He washed. I dried. The warm water ran over his hands as he scrubbed each plate with careful attention. His fingers were long and scarred. Capable of violence, but also of tenderness.
I watched the way soap suds clung to his forearms. The way his muscles flexed as he worked. The way he moved with purpose and precision even in something as mundane as cleaning dishes.
“Is your mom sleeping?” he asked without looking at me.
“In her room, yeah.”
“How long?”
“A couple hours. Maybe three.” I set a dried plate in the cabinet. “The tea I gave her helps her rest.”
He glanced at me, and I held my breath. Waiting. He’d seen me add the extract to her tea but hadn’t asked me what it was.
Watching his face, I searched for something I couldn’t quite name. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was asking him to recognize. Just that I needed him to see it. To see the version of me that wasn’t sweet or soft or safe.
My hands trembled as I dried the next plate. Uncertainty crawled up my spine. What if he was just being kind? What if he didn’t actually understand? What if he was already calculating how to use this against me?
“So we’re alone,” he said.
“Yes.”
He turned off the water and dried his hands on the towel I was holding. His fingers brushed mine. Lingered.
“Good.”
The word hung between us, heavy with promise and threat and everything I’d been trying not to think about since he’d sat down at my table.
He took the towel from my hands and set it on the counter. Then he turned to face me fully, his body crowding mine against the sink. Not touching. Not yet. But close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him.
“I need you to understand something,” he said, his voice low and rough. “When I said you’re mine, I meant it. Not as a threat. Not as control. As a fucking promise.”
My breath caught. “Brock—”
“No.” He cupped my face with both hands and tilted my head back so I had to look at him. “You don’t get to argue this. You don’t get to tell me I’m wrong. Because I’ve never been more right about anything in my entire fucking life.”
His thumb traced my bottom lip, the touch gentle despite the intensity in his eyes.
“You’re mine, Lettie.”
Then he kissed me.
Not gentle. Not tentative. He kissed me like he was claiming something that already belonged to him. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting, taking. His hands slid from my face to my hair, fisting in the strands and angling my head exactly where he wanted it.
I moaned into his mouth. My hands came up to grip his cut. The leather was warm and worn under my fingers. I could smell motor oil and cigarettes and something that was just him.
Before I could process what was happening, his hands gripped my waist and he lifted me. Not toward the hallway. Not toward my bedroom.
He turned and set me on the kitchen table.
The wood was cool against my ass through my skirt. Solid. Unforgiving. My heart hammered against my ribs as he stepped between my thighs, spreading them wide to accommodate his hips.
“What are you doing?” I breathed.
His eyes were dark. Predatory. That smile curved his lips again. The one that promised violence and pleasure in equal measure.
“Having dessert.”