Chapter 57
Kai
I do trust Rooke—and what that says about me, who the fuck knows—but my jaw clenches until it aches as I watch him pierce Haven’s ears.
What disturbs me even more is how fucking turned on I am by the time he’s done.
I don’t know if it’s the black nitrile gloves he put on, or his steady hands as he swabs Haven’s earlobes with an alcohol pad, or how he distracts her with a random anecdote as he slides the needle through her numbed skin without her even noticing.
Haven reaches up to touch the butterflies glittering in her ears, but Rooke bats her hand away. “The only thing touching your pretty ears for the next week is saline solution.”
She grins as she jumps up from her seat and rushes to the bathroom mirror to inspect herself. The look she throws me on the way is nothing short of sheer joy.
I’m instantly jealous I couldn’t make her that happy—until I hear her squeal in the bathroom. “They match perfectly, you guys!”
When I look back at Rooke, he’s watching me with a blank look. “You’re upset,” he says.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “She’s so happy.”
“My gift is meaningless without yours,” he says. “That necklace you gave her…”
Rooke smiles fondly at Haven. Then he heads for the kitchen, giving me a rueful shake of his head as he passes. He peels off his nitrile gloves and tosses them in the trash, opening the fridge as I follow him inside.
“Breakfast?” I ask, desperately hoping he says yes.
Haven’s idea of food is a bagel with cream cheese.
I can’t cook. Never learned how. But Rooke’s been teaching me the basics these past few weeks. He gets very intense around food—lecturing me about flavors and textures and nutritional values.
Broccoli triggers the fuck out of him, for some reason. I only mentioned it once in passing, and he nearly snapped my head off.
“And a real cup of coffee.” He pauses, holding a carton of eggs, glancing over at me with an almost apologetic look on his face. “No offense.”
“Need a fucking PhD to work that thing,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Instant’s just as good.”
“Take your frustration out on the chopping block, boy,” he says, using his chin to point out the veggies stacked on the counter.
I start chopping some spring onion the way he showed me, watching him work whenever it didn’t put me at risk of losing a finger.
Rooke in the kitchen is just fucking surreal.
He cracks the eggs one-handed into a bowl, whisking with a fork while he heats a pan. He adds butter and thyme while he waits for me to finish slicing the peppers.
The smell lures Haven away from whatever reflective surface she was admiring herself in. She hovers in the doorway, sighing happily as she watches us work.
“Make yourself useful and set the table,” Rooke says without turning around.
“What are we having?”
“Omelets,” Rooke says. “Don’t get excited.”
But Haven’s already excited, sliding past me to peer over Rooke’s shoulder. He tolerates it for about three seconds before nudging her away with his elbow.
“Christ, out! Both of you.”
“He’s like a murder-y Gordon Ramsay,” Haven whispers loudly as I steer her into the living room.
“I heard that!”
“You were meant to!”
We set the table, Haven folding the paper towels into triangles.
When Rooke brings out a tray with our omelets and fresh toast, Haven lets out a borderline pornographic moan.
My groan of appreciation is just as erotic. “How’d you learn to cook this well?”
“Worked at a bakery for a few years.” He eats with the same unhurried movements he does everything. “Then part-time as a sous chef when I was in college.”
“It’s so fucking good,” Haven says. “Think you’ll ever be able to cook this well, boy?”
The teasing look she throws me under those dark, long lashes of hers has me getting a semi at the fucking breakfast table.
“Better than you, slut.”
Her mouth drops open. “Asshole!”
I point my fork at her. “Just need to apply yourself. Spend less time sucking our dicks, and more time in the kitchen.”
She scoffs. “No one wants that.”
Haven tried baking us a cake once. Either she got the sugar and salt mixed up, or she was trying to poison us. Thankfully, we only took one bite each, so her evil plan failed.
“Actually, yeah. Please stay out of the kitchen.”
“Agreed,” Rooke mutters, taking a big sip of coffee like he’s trying to wash that taste out of his mouth.
I laugh when she kicks me under the table, and that makes her laugh.
Rooke sips his coffee, frowning at us like he’s confused by our happiness. It’s a language he’s still learning to speak…and we’re his tutors.
When his foot accidentally nudges mine under the coffee table, I slide my toes up his ankle under his pants and grin at him until he smiles back.
I never thought living with a serial killer could be like this.
Maybe I’m stereotyping, but I was expecting violence and mind games, not mind-blowing sex and the best omelets I’ve ever had in my entire fucking life.
He feeds us without being asked, because he always knows when we’re hungry. He teaches us things we’ve never been taught, with unlimited patience—except for that fucking coffee machine.
And he’s always there to comfort us, sometimes before we even know we need him.
The trauma he suffered transformed Rooke into an emotionless machine…but it also made him sensitive as fuck. I think he used to use it as a weapon—reading people’s emotions and using them to gaslight and manipulate—but now it’s his superpower.
Living with a superhero—fucking one—has its benefits.
I start to clear away the plates without being asked, because I’ve been trying to become a better version of myself too, but Haven grabs them out of my hands.
“You guys made breakfast,” she says, stacking the plates. “Least I can do.”
We both watch her disappear into the kitchen. Then we turn back to each other as soon as she’s out of sight. When his eyes lock with mine, a jolt goes through me at the heat in them.
If I hadn’t watched him making breakfast, I’d have sworn he put something in our food. Because no fucking way it’s normal to feel this fucking turned on all the time.
I look at Haven, I get hard. I look at Rooke, I get hard.
It can’t be natural.
But, while it lasts, I think we all plan to take full advantage.
Rooke pushes back his chair and reaches for his coffee cup, but I put out a hand to stop him.
His eyes darken at the touch, a smile curling his lips when I don’t move or speak.
“Need something, boy?”
And of course I hesitate, because I’m always fucking hesitating with him.
When it comes to Rooke, everything feels so…foreign. Not unnatural, just different. Like I have to switch gears mentally to even attempt this new terrain. But the switch is coming faster and faster every time. And I don’t spiral afterward like I used to.
But watching him pierce Haven’s ears did something to me. Instead of fading, that need has grown even stronger.
Slowly, I stand and come around to his side of the table.
“We both do,” I murmur.
I drag his hand over my chest and down my stomach. When I reach the top of my boxers, I tug the waistband away from my skin before forcing his hand inside.
His eyes never leave mine. But his eyelashes tremble when his fingers close over my cock and he feels how hard I am.
“You liked it when I hurt our girl, didn’t you?” he murmurs.
My eyes drop to his mouth. “And you like stating the obvious.”
Rooke’s smile is smug as he gives my cock another slow squeeze. “Want me to hurt her some more?”
“Fuck yes.”
“How?”
I let out a rumble inside my chest. “The belt.”
“Yeah?” Rooke tilts his head, his smile becoming a smirk. “You liked it when I used the belt on her the other night?”
“What gave it away?” I say.
Rooke gives my cock a harder squeeze. “Bring me my belt, then bring her to me.” He tugs his hands out of my pants and walks over to the window with his cup of coffee, picking up his phone on the way.
I assume he’s texting Haven, but I don’t hear a notification going off on her phone.
Maybe he’s checking his emails or something.
I shove the thought out of my head as I go into our room and hunt through the closet for Bastian’s belts. Then I go into the kitchen and stand behind Haven until she notices I’m there.
Fuck, her cheeks go so red when she spots the belts dangling from my hand.
I say nothing as I slide a belt over her throat and buckle it. Her neck is so slim that there are no holes to push the tongue through, effectively turning the belt into a choke collar. I insert two fingers between the leather and her skin to make sure it’s not too tight—just like Rooke showed me.
When I click my tongue, she slowly drops to all fours, her eyes never leaving mine.
Rooke is sitting in the middle of the sofa when we come out of the kitchen, knees spread, arms stretched along the headrest. A tremor goes through me as I lead Haven up to him, our girlfriend shuffling obediently along behind me.
“Kai wants me to hurt you,” Rooke says. “Would you like that, sweet girl?”
“Yes,” Haven whispers. “Yes, please.”
He pats his thigh. “Come.”