Chapter 3 Dining with the Beast #3
Because it's the weapon I used to win my freedom. Because it's the last piece of the arena I can't let go of. Because some nights I hold it and remember what it felt like to be honest about what I am.
"The world is dangerous," I say. "Even in paradise."
She's quiet, turning that over. Then: "You know what I should feel right now? Scared. Woman alone, strange man, weapon in the bedroom drawer. That's the setup of every true crime podcast my lawyer makes me listen to." She picks up her wine. "But I'm not scared. Should I be?"
"No." I mean it with everything I have. "Never of me."
"Then I'm not." She holds my gaze, and something settles between us—a decision, mutual and unspoken. Trust offered. Trust accepted. The terms still undefined, but the contract signed.
She stands. "Thank you for dinner. It was—I don't have the words. You're an extraordinary cook."
"I had good motivation." Too honest. The words slip out before I can catch them, and her cheeks flush in the candlelight.
"Good night, Kaz."
"Let me walk you back."
"You don't—"
"Please."
She hears something in my voice that makes her agree.
The path to the villa is lit by low ground lights that turn the bougainvillea into something from a dream—deep pink fading to purple in the near-dark. She walks ahead of me, barefoot on warm stone, and I keep pace behind her, close enough to reach her in a second, far enough to give her space.
The height difference is more apparent when she's walking in front of me. The top of her head reaches my chest. Her shoulders are half the width of mine. She moves through the world like someone who's learned to take up as little space as possible, and something about that makes my chest ache.
At the villa door, she turns. "Are you sure you don't want your room back? I feel guilty."
"Don't." I check the lock. "Do you know how to use the security panel?"
"The what?"
I show her the concealed controls beside the doorframe. "This arms the system. This calls the main desk. And this—" I pause, choosing my words. "If you ever feel unsafe, press this. I'll be here in under a minute."
"Kaz." Concern crosses her face. "That's a lot of security for a resort."
"I'm a lot of security for a resort." I step back, putting distance between us before the closeness of her becomes something I act on. "Old habits. Sleep well, Edith."
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"For the record," she says, "this is the best night I've had in a very long time. And not because of the food." A pause. "Well, partly because of the food. That octopus could end wars."
A laugh—actual, genuine, surprised from somewhere deep in my chest. The sound of it startles us both.
"Good night," she says, smiling at me like I've given her something precious. The door closes. The lock engages.
I stand there for ten seconds, listening to her move through the villa. The pad of bare feet on tile. A glass of water from the kitchen. Then the creak of the bed—my bed—as she settles in.
Then I turn away, and everything warm in me goes cold.
Three steps down the path, the evening breeze shifts direction. It comes from the northeast now, carrying the day's heat off the scrubland beyond the resort perimeter. Carrying scents the human guests would never register.
Stale tobacco. Faint but distinct. And underneath it, the chemical sharpness of adrenaline—the kind that comes from a body running hot on purpose, focused, hunting.
Not close. Not yet. Kilometers out, maybe, carried on the thermal updraft from the valley. But present. Real. A professional doing reconnaissance in the dark, mapping his territory, getting ready.
The shift doesn't break. I don't let it.
Instead, I walk to the security office with measured, human steps. Pull up the perimeter cameras. Check every angle, every shadow, every patch of darkness where a male might stand and watch and plan.
Nothing visible. But the scent doesn't lie.
Thysa is waiting when I get to the underground office, tablet in hand, two mugs of coffee steaming on the desk.
"He's out there," I say.
"I know. Motion sensors caught something at the northeast boundary twenty minutes ago. Too big for an animal, too careful for a tourist." She slides a mug toward me. "Probably doing his first pass. Getting the lay of the land."
I wrap my hands around the mug. The ceramic is warm, but not warm enough. Not compared to the memory of her fingertip tracing scars that should have killed me.
"How was dinner?" Thysa asks, too casually.
"Fine."
"Just fine? You cooked for four hours."
"She liked the octopus."
"And?"
"The figs went well."
Thysa's grin is slow and insufferable. "The figs went well. My god, boss, you're a poet. Did you at least talk to her like a human?"
"She traced my scars." The confession comes out before I can stop it. "She asked about them. And she didn't—" My voice catches on something I don't have a name for. "She didn't look away."
Thysa's expression softens. The grin fades into something gentler, which is worse, because Thysa being gentle means she thinks I'm in real trouble.
"She fed herself a fig from your hands and didn't run. And you're surprised she can handle a few scars?" She sips her coffee. "Boss. You are in so much deeper than you think."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you've got a Syndicate operative outside the perimeter, a woman sleeping in your bed who doesn't know aliens exist, and you're sitting here looking like a male who got struck by lightning and liked it."
"I liked it," I say quietly. "That's the problem."
She sets down her coffee. "No, boss. That's the point. You've spent five years pretending to be human. Maybe it's time you started remembering what it's like to want something."
"Wanting things gets people killed."
"Not wanting things just kills you slower." She picks up her tablet. "Now. Do you want to talk about your feelings, or do you want to plan how to kill the male outside our fence?"
I reach for the tactical maps.
"Option two."
"Thank God." She pulls up the satellite imagery. "I was worried you were going to choose option one. I haven't had nearly enough coffee for feelings."
We work through the night, mapping approaches, identifying choke points, running scenarios.
Thysa handles intel; I handle strategy. It's the rhythm we've built over three years—her brain and my instincts, her data and my violence, the kind of partnership that works because neither of us pretends to be something we're not.
Around 2 AM, I check the villa cameras. Edith is asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked under the pillow—my pillow—her hair spread across the sheets in waves.
She looks peaceful. Safe.
The word mine surfaces again, quieter this time. Less demand. More prayer.
I close the feed and go back to the maps.
When the sun comes up, I'll be the charming resort owner again. I'll smile and cook breakfast and find reasons to keep her inside the perimeter. I'll be careful, controlled, human.
But right now, in the blue light of the underground office, I let myself be what I am: a predator with a job to do and something worth protecting.
Thysa catches me staring at nothing and slides a second coffee across the desk.
"Drink," she says. "You get sentimental when you're tired."
"I'm not sentimental."
"You're gazing into the middle distance with a look that suggests you're composing sonnets."
"I don't know any sonnets."
"That tracks. Drink the coffee, boss."
I drink the coffee. It doesn't help.
Nothing helps except the memory of her mouth against my thumb and the knowledge that, whatever comes through that perimeter, it's going to have to go through me first.