Chapter 22 Killer Instincts
KILLER INSTINCTS
Ihad to confess, it took me a moment to recover from his comment, and I questioned his motives for flirting.
“I’m not entirely sure what to say to that,” I admitted, lifting my cup as though it might offer me some comfort.
“I find it difficult to believe you are unfamiliar with being desired,” he commented in a wry tone. His gaze firmly fixed on me over the rim of his cup before something quietly triumphant flickered in his eyes when heat crept across my cheeks.
“Well, it’s not as though I’ve never had anyone interested… I’ve dated, of course, but just not enough to qualify as a harem,” I said with a chuckle. However, at the mention of other men, the shift in him was immediate.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic, nothing that would draw attention from anyone else in the café, but I felt it all the same. His shoulders didn’t move, his expression remained smooth, yet his fingers tightened ever so slightly around his cup.
“I imagine that if such a harem existed, I would find myself embarking on a rather enthusiastic killing spree,” he said with unsettling, deadly calm, and the coffee I had just swallowed chose that precise moment to rebel.
I coughed and spluttered before I reached hastily for a napkin. Dabbing at my lips, I surveyed the pastel walls and hanging plants, wondering if the polite hum of coffee machines was quite enough to mask a man’s casual threat of massacre.
“Wow,” I muttered under my breath, lowering the napkin and fixing him with an incredulous look.
“You really don’t ease into things, do you? Casual threats of mass murder on what is, technically, a coffee date.” His brow lifted slowly as a grin played at the edges of his perfect lips.
“Date?” he repeated, latching onto that single word and skipping neatly past the accusation of murder. I straightened immediately, nearly knocking my cup over in the process.
“Not a date, date,” I corrected quickly.
“I mean, this wasn’t supposed to be anything. I was attempting to get coffee on my own when you intruded.”
He leaned back in his chair, entirely unbothered by the accusation, one arm resting along the back as though he had all the time in the world, which being immortal, I guess he did. As for me, every second I spent with him made me feel as if my own time was running out.
“Then I believe your memory to be flawed, as my understanding of events was that you were in the process of leaving this fine establishment… one that provided the morning sustenance you so urgently required,” he countered, pausing long enough to lean closer when reminding me of the excuse I had given him in the car.
But instead of admitting the truth, I instead narrowed my eyes at him and asked,
“How do you know I wasn’t on my way to a different café?”
“A preferred one?” he prompted, amusement flickering faintly in his gaze, like he had already won this round.
“Yes,” I said with more confidence than I felt.
“And what is this establishment called?” he tested and damn it, my mind went completely blank!
“The… erm… Coffee House,” I offered lamely, resisting the urge to smack my forehead against the table. He paused, studying me as though I had just proposed a particularly bold marketing strategy.
“The Coffee House?” he repeated, and I swallowed hard before offering a high-pitched,
“Yes.” An answer that caused his lips to twitch in amusement.
“That is impressively vague,” he disputed, calling me out on my bullshit.
I huffed out a breath before admitting,
“Fine. You caught me.” I shrugged, and his amusement deepened rather than faded, the warmth in his eyes softening into something quieter, something that made the space between us feel less like a game and more like an understanding.
“But can you blame me? Intimidating, remember?” I added, quieter now, reminding him of our earlier conversation in the car. He regarded me carefully, the playful glint in his eyes fading into something far more perceptive.
“And now?” he asked, voice low and steady.
“Now…?” I repeated, not knowing how to answer him.
I glanced around the café again, this time taking in the soft pink and sage tones of the walls, the mismatched ceramic cups stacked behind the counter, and the fairy lights draped lazily across wooden beams overhead.
It was warm here. Gentle even. But more than anything else, it was entirely human. The kind of place where people caught up with friends and justified an expensive caffeine habit as being self-care.
And yet there he was, this masterful figure and powerful immortal who sat across from me now, like something carved from a different reality. This was the most human I had ever seen him. The laughter. The teasing. That almost-blush I swore I had glimpsed earlier.
“Well?” he prompted, clearly eager to know.
“Perhaps… perhaps not,” I said, allowing myself a faint smile. Yet I wondered if I had said the right thing when a thoughtful look crossed his face. But then I realized, after a moment, that it wasn’t wounded pride, nor was it arrogance, but more like quiet reflection.
“Then perhaps I’ll have to tone it down,” he said after a moment of silence.
“Tone it down?” I questioned with a frown.
“If it’s not getting me the desired result, I’m not above changing tactics,” he added calmly, and I shook my head faintly, half in disbelief and half in amusement.
Before I could think better of it, another question slipped from me without permission.
“Did you really pick me because you liked the campaign?” I asked, hating how vulnerable it sounded and instantly wishing I could have taken it back.
He seemed surprised by my question at first before leaning back slightly as the teasing edge quickly faded from his expression.
“You realize that I had that meeting arranged before you ever entered my club,” he stated calmly before continuing on.
“Before I knew who you were. When you were nothing more than a name attached to a proposal I intended to attend. Circumstances altered what came next, but had they not, you would have still delivered your presentation directly to me, and I would have selected your campaign all the same.” The way he spoke was so calm and certain that it made my cheeks warm.
It didn’t sound like flattery, just fact, and that eased something in me I hadn’t known was tense.
“Thank you,” I said quietly, and I meant it.
He inclined his head once, accepting the gratitude without a word, although I was unsure what he would have said. As it was clear he wasn’t just trying to stroke my ego or hiding some ulterior motive. At least, it didn’t come across that way.
The cinnamon roll sat between us, thick icing gleaming beneath the café lights. I tore into it with less grace than I had intended and took a bite that immediately dissolved into sugary, buttery perfection.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, unable to help the soft sound that followed. He watched me with open curiosity, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“It’s that good?”
I nodded, swallowing quickly before holding it out toward him.
“Here. Have a bite.”
For a moment, he looked genuinely caught off guard, and heat rose to my cheeks as it dawned on me that I had just offered food to a man who had casually threatened murder only moments before. But what was it they said? It was too late now, so in for a penny, in for a pound.
“You would share?” he asked, as though the concept itself intrigued him.
“Delicious things should be shared,” I replied, the words tumbling out before I considered how they sounded.
Damn it, why did everything I say now sound so sexual or suggestive?
And of course, he didn’t miss it, as something dark and electric flickered in his eyes.
A sight that sent another shiver rippling straight down my spine.
I began to withdraw my hand, suddenly aware of how intimate the offer felt.
But he stopped me as his fingers closed gently around my wrist.
He then held my gaze as he slowly leaned forward before taking a generous bite, far larger than I had intended to offer. The movement was unhurried, intentional, and I found myself absurdly aware of the way his mouth closed around the pastry. Aware of the faint flex of his jaw as he chewed.
It was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
And yet I couldn’t look away.
He released my wrist only after he had swallowed, and I hadn’t known until that second that the simple sight of a man eating could affect me like this, could turn me on so completely. I blinked down at what remained of the cinnamon roll and then back up at him.
“Hey,” I protested, trying to gather some semblance of indignation.
“I offered you a bite, not half of it,” I grumbled, the complaint entirely half-hearted. Yet he just licked a trace of icing from his lower lip with slow, measured movements.
“You were unclear on the parameters,” he replied smoothly, and I scoffed a laugh as I pulled my hand back, attempting to reclaim my composure.
Although the knowing look in his eyes told me he was fully aware of the effect he had on me.
And, if the faint curve of his mouth was anything to go by, he wasn’t exactly displeased by it either.
“Oh, was I now?” I said, leaning back in my chair and brushing icing from my fingertips onto a napkin.
“Well, perhaps next time I’ll have to establish firmer boundaries. Clear terms. Bullet points. Maybe even a contract.” The word lingered between us, one I had deliberately placed. His eyes sharpened just slightly, though the corner of his mouth curved in faint amusement.
“A contract?” he echoed.
“Yes,” I continued lightly, folding my hands together as though drafting one in the air.
“I’ll have something drawn up. Clause one, bite-size limitations. Clause two, no surprise killing sprees before ten a.m.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him at that.
“You would draft terms against me?” he asked in feign shock.
“I’d have to, apparently, you exploit ambiguity,” I said, feeling cocky now. Even as his gaze held mine, and this time the humor thinned into something more thoughtful.
“I find clarity preferable, ambiguity invites negotiation.”
I rolled my eyes at that, as something about the way he said it cooled the air between us.
“Speaking of contracts,” I said, my tone shifting without meaning to.
“Why did you have one prepared before you even saw my campaign?” The question landed heavier than the teasing before it, which was, no doubt, why he didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he released a quiet sigh as his fingers drummed slightly against the edge of the table, as though considering how much truth to offer.
“Alright, I will be honest with you, whether your campaign impressed me or not was irrelevant,” he said at last, and my stomach dipped.
“The outcome was inevitable,” he continued calmly, yet I was anything but.
“Inevitable?” I repeated, trying to keep the edge of unease from creeping into my voice.
“That sounds very… predetermined and quite contradictory to your earlier comment,” I pointed out.
“You entered my club, Eliza… you saw things you were not meant to see.”
I swallowed hard as my fingers tightened around my coffee cup.
“Then, you vanished,” he added, watching me closely.
“You should not have been able to do that.” A flicker of something moved through his gaze, no longer playful. Like someone had flipped the intimidation switch back on and I was once again left squirming in my seat.
“Which begs the question… how?”
My pulse began to pound in my ears. I glanced toward the café entrance without thinking.
“Looking for someone again?” he asked softly, and the casualness of it made it worse.
“I am going to require answers, Eliza,” he continued, voice still even, but firmer now.
“I need to know what brought you into my domain. More importantly…” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Why you are protecting whoever helped you leave it.”
My breath caught.
Protecting.
The word felt too weighted. Like the truth would crush me any second.
“I…” I started, then stopped. The warmth of the café suddenly felt suffocating. The pastel walls too close. The air too thick.
“I need the bathroom,” I blurted, standing abruptly enough that my chair scraped loudly against the floor. He rose at the same time, instinctive, a subtle tension coiling through him.
“Eliza.”
“I just need the bathroom,” I insisted, forcing steadiness into my voice. His gaze held mine for a moment longer, searching for something I couldn’t name. Then, after another sigh, he inclined his head slightly toward a small sign just beyond the counter.
I grabbed my bag from beside the chair, leaving my jacket draped over the back deliberately as though I fully intended to return.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
I turned and walked toward the hallway without looking back.
Each step felt louder than it should have, and all I could hope for was a window or some form of escape.
However, what I found was even better as the corridor was narrow, dimmer than the café floor, lined with framed prints and soft lighting.
Halfway down, I spotted not only the restroom sign, but just beyond it was a door marked STAFF ONLY.
My heart leapt.
I didn’t hesitate.
I slipped through it and closed it quietly behind me. The kitchen beyond was a different world entirely, stainless steel counters, industrial lighting, and the hum of refrigeration units. The smell of coffee gave way to detergent and baked goods.
A barista laughed somewhere in a back prep room, out of sight.
I kept my head down, moving quickly but not running, slipping past a stack of crates toward the rear exit.
The alley door was propped open slightly to let in air, and my pulse roared as I stepped through it.
Cool air hit me as I found myself in the alleyway, dumpsters lined along one wall, late morning light slicing between buildings.
The city noise felt distant but reachable.
So, I didn’t allow myself to think, I just walked.
Then faster and faster until I turned the corner and disappeared into the crowd beyond.
Only when I was several streets away did I slow, my breath coming unevenly.
I also glanced over my shoulder more than once.
Hell, it could have been a hundred times, given the state of panic I was in.
But there was nothing.
For now.
But the question lingered, cold and relentless.
How long would I be able to outrun the inevitable, this time?
How long before…
I was Oblivion’s prey once more?