Chapter Twenty-Six
Reaper
She leaves me standing in the shower, alone with just my thoughts and the sound of running water. Lost in my thoughts is not where I want to be — not right now. Not after I feel like maybe I might have a second chance at life with Adriana.
Like maybe I can move on.
I slip out of the shower, wrap a towel around myself, hardly drying off and leaving a trail of droplets on the floor as I head into the kitchen and find Adriana glaring at the coffeemaker.
She must feel it, too; this feeling that we’re either doing something right, or something so wrong that it’ll end with pain and suffering for us both.
She doesn’t look up from the coffee maker when I get into the kitchen; she just keeps staring at it like it’s the heat of her gaze that’s making the coffee steam and not the damn machine.
“Is that the same look you’d give the criminals you go after? Did they start steaming, too?”
She looks up, rolls her eyes at me, and from the heat that crosses my skin, the only answer can be — yes.
“I just want some coffee, and this damn machine is so fucking slow. After what you and I… after what we did, I need to get focused. I need to wake up. Because it’s going to take a lot of work to figure out how to take care of Ruslan Volkov and save your damn life so that maybe we can work out how… how we…”
She trails off.
I know where she’s going: us. How to figure out ‘us.’ Even a guy like me, with my history of unintelligent behavior — including drinking antifreeze, apparently — can suss that one out.
I want that, too — I want an ‘us.’ Even if it’s an ‘us’ that might be based on a lie, I want a second chance if it’s with her.
Guilt, shame, and desire burn through me in equal amounts, and I clench and unclench my hands.
These feelings and these wants are so new, so raw, that I know I can’t say them out loud to her — it’d only scare her away.
I can see in her eyes she’s struggling with the same thing: is this really real?
But I can’t just stand here, clenching my hands like I’m still figuring out how my appendages work.
I have to do something.
I grab the coffeepot from under the drip, even though it's not done brewing, and pour her a mug. "Here. Take this and go sit down. I'll handle breakfast."
She looks at me as if I’ve just told her I'm planning to juggle flaming chainsaws. "You cook?"
"Among other talents you haven't discovered yet." I nudge her toward the small dining table. "Go. Sit. Drink your coffee and let me take care of something for once."
“Take care of something? You’re taking like I need someone to take care of me—”
I hold up a finger, which escalates the intensity of her stare.
Normally, it’d be enough to shut me up, but I’m determined to do something, and she clearly looks like she needs someone to take care of her, or else her head will explode trying to figure out what the fuck is really going on between us.
Is it just fucking? Is it something more?
“Don’t start. Just sit, drink coffee, and fucking wait.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I'm already moving, pulling open cabinets and checking what's available.
Flour, butter, eggs — enough to work with.
My hands know what to do before my brain catches up, muscle memory kicking in from all those early mornings in Tank's kitchen when I was still trying to figure out how to be human again after getting clean.
"You learn a lot of unexpected shit when you're trying to stay sober," I call over my shoulder, already measuring flour by feel.
"Tank — one of the guys from the club — used to be a baker. Well, he was and still is a baker. Says working with dough is one of the few times in life where he really feels peace. Can’t say I disagree with him. It sure as fuck helped me."
The familiar rhythm of mixing, kneading, shaping settles something jagged in my chest. This is something I can control, something I can make right.
I can't fix what we're walking into with Volkov, can't promise either of us will make it out alive, but I can make her breakfast. I can give her this small thing.
I work quickly, my hands moving through the motions Tank drilled into me until they became second nature — croissant dough, rolled and folded with precision, and danish pastry, delicate and buttery.
The scent of baking fills the kitchen, and for the first time since I woke up and realized the emotional minefield Adriana and I are walking through with our fucking eyes closed, my shoulders aren't locked with tension.
When I turn around with the tray, Adriana's staring at me like I've grown a second head. The croissants are golden and flaky; the strawberry and cream cheese danishes are glazed to perfection.
"What the hell?" she says. “What the fuck did you just do?”
I set the tray in front of her, trying not to let her see how much I need her to like this, how much I need to be good at something that doesn't involve violence or destruction. "Try one."
She picks up a danish and takes a tentative bite. Her eyes go wide, then narrow with what looks like genuine anger.
"These are fucking delicious," she says, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I hate your fucking guts for making them this good."
Something warm unfurls in my chest, better than any high I ever chased. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She takes another bite, closing her eyes like she's savoring it. "Where the hell did you learn to bake like this?"
"Tank always said baking was just chemistry with better results." I pour myself coffee, lean against the counter. "It took me a long time to learn that lesson. Time that I spent mostly being handcuffed in his bakery, but eventually, I figured it out.”
“This guy kept you prisoner?”
“Yeah. Basically.”
“Was it a sexual thing?”
“No. He helped save my life,” I say. I hesitate, going back to that time in my mind; how fucked-up I was, how deep in my addiction, how Vanessa was still alive.
“Kept me from relapsing. I sucked at baking at first. My pastries looked like rejects from a high school science class’s dissection project, but eventually, I got good enough that Tank said my pastries were ‘not total shit.’”
She takes another bite, smiles. “Fuck, if only more rehab programs took your brother Tank’s advice. Maybe he could train people or…”
I laugh. “He’d take your head off if you suggested that to him. He hates everyone except for his ol’ lady Bianca.”
“And you?”
“Tolerates me, maybe. Though I think there’s a part of him that still hates me, too. It’s just his nature. Just like how there’s a part of me that will always be an addict.”
She takes another pastry — a croissant this time — then takes a bite and moans. “I might be an addict, too. Goddamn, Reaper.”
I can’t help but grin, seeing the tension in her eyes and her hard edge soften, just a little; she’s still Adriana, she still looks about as friendly or approachable as a rabid pitbull, but that’s a step up from how she looked earlier. “Have another.”
“Fuck you. I will.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the tension from earlier slowly dissolving with each bite.
I watch her face relax, the hard lines around her eyes softening as she works through a second croissant.
There's something almost vulnerable about the way she's savoring each piece, like she's not used to someone taking care of her.
"This is weird," she says finally, not looking at me.
"The pastries?"
"No, asshole. The pastries are fucking delicious. I mean this. Whatever this is…" She gestures between us with her coffee mug. "Having someone make me breakfast. I've never... I mean, guys don't usually..." She trails off, shakes her head. "Forget it."
But I don't want to forget it. "Never had a guy make you breakfast before?"
Her cheeks flush slightly. "No. I'm usually the one who handles everything myself. Food, coffee, planning, execution. I don't let people take care of me."
"How's it feel?"
She considers this, taking another sip of coffee. "Good," she admits quietly. "Strange as hell, but good."
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Something warm and satisfied settles in my chest, knowing I gave her something she's never had before.
"I see that smug look on your face," she says, glaring at me over her mug. "Fuck you."
"Just glad you like it."
"Don't let it go to your head." But there's no real heat in her voice, and I catch the hint of a smile she's trying to hide.
The moment stretches between us, comfortable and dangerous at the same time. I could get used to this — mornings with her, making her breakfast, watching that armor she wears crack just a little. But reality crashes back in when I remember where we are, what we're up against.
"We can't stay here much longer," I say, the words tasting bitter after the sweetness of the pastries.
Her expression hardens immediately, all business again. "I know. Every hour we're here puts Susan and the shelter at risk. Volkov's still hunting us."
"So what's our play? We can't just walk up to his front door and ask nicely for him to stop being a murdering piece of shit."
She leans back in her chair, studying me. "We need three things if we're going to take him down. Muscle, weapons, and access."
"Access?"
"To his operation. His safe houses, his money, his people. We need to know where he is and how to get to him without walking into a trap."
I nod, my mind already working through the possibilities. "The muscle and weapons part... I might have a solution."
"Yeah?"
"Tank." The name comes out reluctant, heavy with complications I don't want to explain.
"Your baker friend who kept you handcuffed?"
"He's more than a baker. He's my brother in the MC, and he and the club have connections. If he and a few of my brothers came down here, fuck, we could take the fight to Volkov, maybe.”
“So stop hesitating. Call your friend and get him down here.”
I hesitate. Lose myself for a moment in a Danish and my cup of coffee. “There’s a problem.”
“What?”
“The club’s got resources. They’ve also got rules. A code. One you do not fuck around with… And the way I left things with them, disappearing down here to die… Well, Tank might just decide to track me down and make that happen himself.”