19
Luna
The first attempt ends up in the trash, blackened bits stuck to the bottom of the pan like some sort of culinary punishment.
Alright. Fine. Maybe browning the butter wasn’t a genius idea.
I take a breath and start over, this time with olive oil.
Feeling more confident, I pour in the eggs. Slow and steady. This is fine. I’ve got this.
Except I don’t. The edges start sticking immediately, and my panicked poking only makes it worse.
No, no, no! This was supposed to be the redemption omelet. I dial down the heat, but it’s too late. The edges are crispy-burnt, while the middle stays stubbornly liquid.
I wait, hoping it’ll somehow fix itself. But the burnt smell creeps up again. You’ve got to be kidding me.
I literally turned down the heat and change the cooking fat. What the fuck else do you want from me?
The pan just sizzles in reply, egg glued to it like it’s holding a grudge. I grab a fork. Maybe it’ll taste better than it looks.
It doesn’t.
“Having fun?”
Cade’s voice slides through the kitchen. I glance up to find him lounging against the doorframe, all coiled grace and crossed arms as he takes in my culinary crime scene. The scent of charred eggs hangs between us like a confession.
Another witnessed fail. Perfect. And the worst part? He doesn’t even need to smile. He just stands there, perfectly stone-faced, while his eyes are practically howling with laughter.
How does he do that?
I toss the spatula down with more force than necessary and wipe my hands on a dish towel. “I’ve had a bad day, alright? It’s not every day you slide down twenty-three floors, stunt-ride around town with a madman then watch gangsters get turned into roadside fireworks.”
He pushes off the door frame and strides over to the hob, eyebrow quirking as he surveys the carnage in the pan. I can feel the laughter vibrating under the surface just like when I ran into the cupboard earlier.
“Besides,” I huff, “someone threw away my phone.”
“What would you need your phone for?” His attention stays on the wreckage of my attempts, but I catch the slight curl of his lips.
“To order in, obviously.”
He simply nods, and then, he’s in motion—grabbing a bowl and raiding the fridge for fresh vegetables. Then he jerks his chin at the kitchen table. “Go sit down.”
I plant my feet, arms crossed. “Why?”
“ Because you’re dead on your feet from doing stunts with a madman,” he says as he washes up the vegetables, his voice a shade too casual. “Now is there anything you don’t eat?”
I hesitate. “Nuts.”
He freezes, then turns to face me with a predatory focus. “Anaphylaxis?”
“What’s that?”
Those green eyes pin me with sudden intensity, all traces of earlier amusement gone. The shift makes my stomach flip. “What happens to you when you eat nuts?”
“What, are you planning to slip them into my food?” I try for playful, but my voice wavers under his scrutiny.
“Answer me.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I get bloated, okay?” Of all my weaknesses to reveal to this man, this feels absurdly intimate.
“Noted.”
He turns back to the stove, flicking the pan onto the burner. “Sit down.”
I hoist myself onto the counter, the cool marble a shock against the thigh exposed by my torn skirt. “What are you making?”
His knife catches the light as he points it toward the kitchen table, the gesture somehow both threatening and elegant. “The chair’s over there.”
“Nah, I’m good here.” I swing my legs while studying the play of muscle under his shirt as he works. “Unless you think I’m distracting you?”
His hands continue their precise dance over the vegetables. “You’re not distracting me, princess. You’re in my way.”
I stay where I am, and he doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he focuses on his task, each slice of the knife making his forearm muscle s flex and shift, veins trailing up his arms like rivers of steel.
The silence thickens, but Cade wears it like armor, sinking into it as if it’s his natural state. The longer it stretches, the more at ease he seems, even cracking his head side to side as if releasing tension, while I resist the urge to fidget and fill the quiet with mindless chatter.
And then it clicks. Cade actually enjoys this—making people squirm, having them grapple with the discomfort he thrives on. But why?
My stomach breaks the silence with another embarrassingly loud growl. Cade doesn’t even flinch; he just continues his rhythmic knife work, perfectly contained. Cool. Untouchable. Like a still pond.
A pond I’d like to ripple.
“Cade.” I let the single syllable roll off my tongue, drawing it out and deliberately relishing it.
His knife freezes mid-slice—just for a heartbeat, but that small hesitation feels like victory. Then he’s moving again, but there’s a new tension in his shoulders. With military precision, he slides perfectly uniform rings of vegetables into the pan. The sizzle fills the kitchen, along with an aroma that makes my mouth water with each ingredient and seasoning he adds.
I lean forward, letting my hair fall like a dark curtain, then lower my voice to a sultry whisper. “Watching you cook is like . . . art, you know? A sensual feast.”
His eyes flick to mine before turning back to the stove, but that brief contact burns with . . . a warning? An invitation?
And then he’s plating what looks like a magazine-worthy stir-fry, the vegetables gleaming, steam rising in an aromatic cloud that almost makes me moan with how good it smells.
“ Show-off,” I mutter, but my hand’s already reaching for the drawer beside my leg, hunting for a fork.
His fingers graze mine when he hands me the plate, and the contact sizzles up my arm like a live wire. I lift my gaze to him when he doesn’t immediately let go, finding that same granite expression but his eyes . . . God, his eyes burn emerald fire.
“Thank you, Cade,” I murmur.
He quirks those expressive eyebrows in a gesture that could mean anything from ‘you’re welcome’ to ‘fuck off’—the man could write a whole dictionary with his eyebrows alone—and drops his hand. The loss of contact leaves my fingers tingling and my skin hungry for more.
The first bite hits, and— oh holy hell. My eyes flutter shut, and this time I can’t stop the moan that escapes me. Flavors explode across my tongue like fireworks: garlic, ginger, something deeper and darker that makes my taste buds sing. I’m already chasing the next bite before I’ve finished the first.
“Cade, this is . . .” Words fail me, and that hardly ever happens.
He turns away, the muscles in his back a rigid wall between us, and he reaches into one of the cupboards for a bottle of scotch and a glass. The amber liquid catches the light as he pours, his movements precise and controlled.
The fact that he made this food specifically for me should send warmth blooming through my chest, but his pissy attitude freezes even that small pleasure to ice.
I force myself to stop chewing, swallow deliberately, and then say with poisonous sweetness, “You’re welcome. Thank you.”
He pauses with his glass halfway to those infuriating lips. “What?”
I shrug. “Oh, it’s nothing, Cade. Just mentally compiling a list of basic phrases you might want to add to your vocabulary. Like ‘please,’ ‘thank you,’ ‘you’re welcome’—you know, those little words most humans learn before kindergarten?”
His lips curl into that knowing smirk—the one that says he’s three steps ahead in whatever game we’re playing—and leans back against the counter. “And what’s the proper etiquette when I kill a man for you, princess? Is there a Hallmark card for that?”
My breath catches as I recall those were my exact thoughts after I came down from the warehouse floor. He must have read it off my expression. I retort with an observation of my own. “You didn’t kill Hector for me, Cade.”
Those green eyes lock onto mine. The intensity there . . . it’s like gravity, pulling me in even as it warns me to stay away.
“You’re right,” he finally says, voice rough as crushed velvet. “That kill was for me.”
I blink, surprised at his easy admission. “That’s what you use the rosary for isn’t it, Cade?”
“Are you running a tab on how many times you say my name?” He pushes off the counter, apparently done sharing secrets, and starts cleaning up.
Maybe it’s better he doesn’t answer. Some demons are best left behind bars. I keep my tone playful and shrug. “Why, I like the way your name sounds. It’s strong and sexy. It suits you.”
His gaze snaps to mine. “You can’t flirt for shit, you know.”
“And you wouldn’t know a flirt if it crawled up your ass.” I shoot back, rewarded by the clench in his jaw.
Cade sets his glass down slowly, still holding my gaze. “Is that so?”
“Yep. Most men would kill to hear a woman moan their name.”
He leans in, closing the distance between us until I can smell that intoxicating mix of leather and citrus. “I’d kill a dozen men to get you to shut up.”
My pulse hammers against my throat, but I force my tone to stay cool. “Exactly my point. You threatened to throw me into traffic just for daring to come all over you.”
He goes statue-still, every muscle locked, and triumph floods my veins like champagne.
Got you.
“Come all over your bike, I meant to say.” I correct myself with a deliberate smirk, watching heat flare in his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of coming on you.” I lean forward, matching his invasion of my space, and whisper. “You’d lose your shit.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Why you’d lose your shit or why I wouldn’t dream of it?”
He takes a measured sip of his drink. “Take your pick.”
“Because you’re a sadist?” I throw the word between us like a lit match into gasoline.
Cade chokes on his drink. “What?”
“Oh, don’t play coy. I watched you kill Hector. The pain, the power . . .” More words tumble out before survival instinct can stop them. “The way you savored every second as his life drained away.”
He moves like a shadow, and suddenly he’s right between my spread legs, his hand branding my exposed thigh—thanks to the generous slit he gifted me. His touch is electric, making me shiver with both fear and desire.
“What you saw me do to Hector,” he growls, his breath fanning hot against my neck, “wasn’t about pain.”
I swallow hard, ignoring the clanging bells in my head to stop pushing him. “Riiight. You just happened to get off on it.”
His laugh carries no humor. “Princess, that wasn’t sadism.”
I b link, trying to keep my thoughts focused, but his hand on my thigh makes it impossible. His eyes—an intense, unbroken green without a single fleck of color—are like bottomless pools, pulling me in.
“Whatever it was,” I manage, struggling to keep my voice steady, “it’s beyond messed up. Twisted enough to deserve its own chapter in the DSM.”
His brows lift slightly, a flicker of surprise. “And here I was thinking you majored in sex and minored in finance,” he murmurs. “Failing spectacularly at both, from what I can tell.”
I suck in a breath, shocked. “You’re—”
“—a total dickhead. So you keep reminding me,“ he smirks.
A smile tugs at my lips but evaporates when his gaze drops to my mouth. The weight of his stare is physical, making my lips tingle as if he’s already kissing me.
When his eyes lock back on mine, the raw hunger there steals the air from my lungs. His fingers flex against my thigh, the slight pressure sending bolts of need through me.
The command in his eyes is unmistakable. Or maybe that’s just my own screaming ovaries—I don’t care anymore. All I know is I might die if he doesn’t kiss me in the next five seconds.
But all he does is watch as I shift restlessly, the bastard. His breath ghosts across my lips until they part on their own, desperate to taste it.
Something in me snaps—that last thread of self-control gives way and I surge forward, half expecting him to dodge. But his smirk only widens with a predatory satisfaction. He’s letting me come to him—like a hunter who knows his prey is already trapped.
My hands find his chest and trail upward with deliberate slowness, mapping ridges and planes of muscle, relishing the way they bunch under my touch.
Whe n I reach his shoulders, I let myself indulge and slide my fingers into the short, silky hair at his nape. A sigh slips from me as I close the space between us and claim his mouth.
His lips are warm and so soft they make me shiver. Desire pools low in my belly, spreading outward, spurring me on. My grip tightens in his hair as I chase the taste of Scotch and sin and barely banked violence. With a moan, I swipe my tongue along his lower lip then capture it between mine and suck, drowning in the feel of him—
“What are you doing, princess?”
The words vibrate against my mouth, slicing through my haze of desire.
I jerk back, heat flooding my cheeks as I suddenly realize that while I’d been losing myself in him, he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t kissed me back.
Not even a little bit.