10. Kanyan
10
KANYAN
W hen I said I know my way around a kitchen, I meant it. I know the way to the refrigerator, where my housekeeper Rosemarie keeps a neat stack of prepared meals ready and waiting to be heated.
“How old are you?” I ask her.
She eyes the premade meals and her eyebrows rise.
“Wow,” she deadpans. “A man of many talents.”
“You have no idea. Any dietary restrictions?”
“Nope,” she replies, leaning forward on her elbows. “Though I’m now questioning the freshness of mystery meals in plastic trays.”
I arch a brow, unimpressed. “Rosemarie would be offended by that comment. She makes these every morning. They’re practically gourmet.” I set the trays on the counter and preheat the oven, ignoring her smirk.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she teases, but I don’t bite, just slide the trays into the oven and set the timer.
I grab two water bottles from the fridge and place one in front of her. My gaze lingers on her for a second too long, before I twist the cap off my own bottle and tilt it back, draining half in one long, smooth gulp. The muscles in my throat shift as I drink, and for reasons I can’t quite explain, I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how much space she takes up in this room. I’ve never had to share my space with anyone – never even considered it, truth be told.
When I lower the bottle, her blue eyes meet mine. I’ve caught her staring. Heat rises in her cheeks, but she plays it off by twisting the cap off her own bottle.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say, leaning one hip against the counter.
She frowns. “What question?”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty,” she answers, a little too quickly. “Why? How old do I look?”
“Not old enough,” I say, my tone laced with dry humor.
She narrows her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “Not old enough for what, exactly?”
“To already be in trouble,” I say, crossing my arms. My voice is firm, but there’s a flicker of some softness behind my words.
She snorts. “You sound like my dad.”
“Glad to know someone taught you better,” I fire back, a small grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“Don’t get too excited,” she protests. “He’s the one who got me into this mess.”
I pause with the bottle halfway to my mouth and look at her. I don’t understand how her father could be responsible for her predicament, but now I’m more curious than ever.
“Is that so?”
She opens her mouth to speak but thinks better of it, sitting uncomfortably, her knuckles white around her bottle. The teasing air between us shifts slightly, but before I can think too hard about it, the oven timer dings.
“Saved by the bell,” I say lightly, trying to steer us back to safer ground. I push off the counter to grab the trays from the oven. “Let’s see if Rosemarie’s cooking lives up to your high standards.”
I set the plates in front of us, the smell of seared steak and roasted vegetables wafting up to meet me. I hear her stomach growl, and I glance up to watch her with an amused glint in my eye. Even if she enjoys the dinner, she may never admit defeat. Lula is a fighter, through and through.
“Eat up,” I say, sliding a fork toward her. “You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
“To argue with me some more, obviously.”
Dinner is quiet, and not the kind of quiet that feels comfortable. Lula picks at her food, her fork moving vegetables around the plate more than actually eating them. I’m not one to push, so I give her space. But the weight in the air—it’s like she’s waiting for something bad to happen.
“I need to go into work tomorrow,” I tell her as I finish my last bite. “But you’ll be safe here.”
She glances up at me, a hint of bitterness in her expression. “Safe. Right. Like a prisoner—no way in, no way out?”
I set my fork down and lean back, meeting her gaze. “You’re not a prisoner, Lula. You can leave whenever you want.” I pause, letting the weight of my next words settle. “But I highly recommend you don’t. Not until the threat against you is gone.”
Her shoulders sag slightly, but not in relief. More like she’s giving up. She shakes her head, her eyes clouded with something dark—hopelessness, maybe. It’s a look I’ve seen before, the kind that says she doesn’t believe anything will get better.
I want to tell her that no situation is hopeless. That I’ve seen worse, much worse, and people still find their way out. But before I can speak, her phone vibrates on the counter.
Her whole body goes rigid. She stares at the screen, not picking it up, unmoving. The blood drains from her face, leaving her pale. Her bottom lip trembles, and I can almost smell the fear that rocks her body.
“Who is it?” I ask, my voice calm but firm. She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look at me. It’s like she’s frozen, trapped in whatever nightmare is on the other side of that screen.
When she doesn’t respond, I grab the phone and turn it around so I can see the message.
Where are you???
The anger practically drips off the words, even through the glowing text on the screen. The exclamation points are aggressive, like they’re shouting at her, daring her to defy him. I don’t need to ask who it is. There’s only one person who’d send her something like this.
My jaw tightens, and I glance at her. She’s trembling now, her whole body vibrating like a wire stretched too tight.
Her phone starts ringing, the sudden sound a harsh awakening as it cuts through the room like a knife. She flinches, her eyes darting to mine, wide and pleading. She wants me to make it stop.
“Answer it,” I say, my tone low but steady. She shakes her head violently, her breath coming faster. “Answer it and put it on speaker,” I repeat, pushing the phone closer to her.
She looks at me, desperate, terrified, but I meet her gaze evenly. “I’m right here,” I remind her. “He can’t hurt you.”
Her fingers tremble as she reaches for the phone. The ringing stops, only to start again almost immediately. Finally, she swipes the screen and sets it to speakerphone, placing it on the counter between us like it might explode.
“Where the fuck are you, Lula?!?” Derin’s voice roars through the speaker, sharp and ugly. She flinches again, her hand flying to her mouth to muffle a small, involuntary gasp.
I lift a finger to my lips, signaling her to stay quiet. Then, I pick up the phone, my movements slow and deliberate, and hold it close to my mouth.
“Who is this?” I ask, my voice calm, measured.
There’s a pause on the other end, like he’s confused, maybe even checking the screen to see if he dialed the wrong number. Then his voice comes back, dripping with venom. “Who’s this? Who the fuck are YOU ?”
“The man who’s going to fillet you if you call this number again,” I reply, my tone steady, unbothered.
There’s a beat of silence, and then he explodes. “Listen, you mother?—”
I hang up before he can finish. The click of the phone cutting off his rant is deafening in the sudden quiet.
Lula is still trembling, her eyes glued to the phone like she expects it to come back to life. Her breath hitches, and I know she’s still caught in the grip of her fear.
I place the phone on the counter and lean toward her, my voice softer now. “I think it’s time you told me all about your friend Derin.”
She swallows hard, her eyes finally meeting mine. There’s a storm behind them—fear, shame, anger, all swirling together. But there’s something else, too. A flicker of trust, tentative but it’s there nonetheless.