Scarlett
The kitchen is already alive when I walk in, sunlight dragging itself across the counters, spilling through the tall windows that overlook the garden my stepmother fusses over like it’s Eden itself.
The smell of coffee is thick, bitter and sharp, clashing with the sweetness of toast and the faint tang of citrus.
Everything in here gleams — stainless-steel appliances polished within an inch of their lives, marble counters cold and perfect, the long oak table stretching across the space like something out of a magazine.
Then there’s him.
Kai Everly.
Leaning back in one of the kitchen chairs like he owns it, chair tipped just enough to show he doesn’t care if it breaks beneath him.
With a mug in his hand, lazy fingers wrapped around porcelain, dark hair messy like he rolled out of bed and didn’t bother to fix it — because he doesn’t need to.
No matter what he does — whether he’s pulling a shirt over his broad shoulders or not bothering at all — he’s beautiful in a way that feels dangerous.
His jaw is sharp enough to hurt, cheekbones cut like a weapon, mouth curved in that constant smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.
Blue eyes, colder than they should be, burn brighter when they land on you.
His throat, the hollow shifting as he swallows, the line of his collarbone disappearing into a plain grey T-shirt that clings to his chest — to the muscle in his arms when he moves.
Veins snake down the backs of his hands, disappearing under skin tanned from nights I don’t want to picture.
And he’s not alone.
She’s perched on the counter, legs crossed, dress too short, blonde hair gleaming like spun sugar under the morning light.
She’s laughing at something he said, tilting her head back, mouth painted in some expensive shade of red that doesn’t suit her but somehow makes her look even more untouchable.
She’s beautiful. Not ordinarily beautiful — magazine-spread beautiful. The kind of girl men break rules for.
I freeze in the doorway, heart stuttering, because Kai looks at her like she’s an old habit — like this is easy, casual.
‘Really?’ she teases, nudging his arm with her foot. ‘You expect me to believe you didn’t mean to spill that drink on me?’
Kai’s grin widens, lazy and cruel. ‘Accidents happen. You’re the one who followed me home from the bar, sweetheart.’
Her laugh is soft, playful, fingers curling in her hair as she bites her lip like she’s trying to hide it.
And me? I can’t breathe.
I’ve seen Kai cold, I’ve seen him silent, I’ve seen him stare holes through me like he’s trying to carve me open. But this? This playful, easy version of him belongs to her — the stranger in our kitchen, her perfume thick and expensive, clinging to the air, clinging to him.
It makes something ugly claw up my throat.
I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I just stand there in the doorway, fingers digging into the frame like maybe if I hold on hard enough, I’ll keep myself from doing something stupid.
They don’t notice me at first — too caught up in each other, too loud with their laughter, her voice high and sweet, his low and rough, a sound that slips under my skin the way it always does.
She tosses her hair, all gloss and shine, and leans closer, her knees brushing his arm.
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away.
He just looks up at her with that lazy grin — the one that makes him look like sin personified — and says, ‘You really thought you could out-drink me? You should know better by now.’
She swats his shoulder, playful, like they’ve done this a hundred times. ‘You’re cocky.’
Kai tilts his head, smirk sharp. ‘I’m right.’
Her laughter bubbles out again, too bright, too light, filling every corner of the kitchen until I want to shatter something just to silence it.
She slides off the counter with a little hop, her dress riding higher on her thighs, and I can’t stop staring at the way his eyes drag down her legs before flicking back up like it doesn’t matter. Like none of this matters.
But it does.
It matters because Kai doesn’t laugh like this at the dinner table. He doesn’t tease like this when it’s just us. With me, he’s sharp edges and heavy silences, eyes too dark, words too dangerous. With her, he’s light, careless, almost human.
I hate it.
I hate her.
I hate the way he leans back in his chair, hands laced behind his head, looking every inch the beautiful, arrogant bastard who knows exactly what he’s doing — broad shoulders stretching his shirt, stomach hard under the thin cotton, the hem riding up just enough to show the cut of muscle, the V of his hips disappearing under denim that clings to his thighs.
I hate myself most of all because I can’t look away.
She bends down to whisper something in his ear, and he chuckles low, deep in his chest, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to give her that sound.
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste copper, but I stay silent because if I open my mouth now, the wrong words will come out — and I can’t afford for anyone, especially her, to know what’s really twisting in my chest.
So I stand there, swallowing fire, watching Kai smile at someone who isn’t me.
It’s when she leans in closer, her fingers brushing his jaw like she has any right to touch him, that he sees me. His eyes flick up, just for a second, and it’s like being hit square in the chest.
That blue locks on me across the kitchen — sharp and cold and knowing — and for a heartbeat the whole room tilts.
His smirk doesn’t falter, not for her, not for the way she’s still trying to get his attention, but I see it: the way his gaze drags down my body before coming back to my face. A silent claim. A warning. A challenge.
Heat crawls up my throat, traitorous, and I force my hands tighter around the mug I’m pretending to need. I should look away. I should move, say something, anything — but I can’t. I’m pinned in place like he’s got his hand on me when he doesn’t even have to.
The girl notices after a second, follows his line of sight, and when her eyes land on me, her smile falters. She straightens a little, tugging her dress down as if she suddenly remembers she’s not supposed to be here.
Kai finally leans back in his chair, stretching like a cat — all muscle and arrogance — and says easily, ‘Morning, Scarlett.’
My name in his mouth makes my stomach twist, makes the air catch hard in my lungs, makes me want to run and stay all at once.
‘Morning,’ I manage, the word clipped, too thin.
His grin curves wider, just enough to let me know he heard it in my voice — the tightness, the strain.
He says nothing else, doesn’t explain the girl, doesn’t offer a single piece of kindness to make this easier.
He just watches me over the rim of his mug, slow, deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world to peel me open without laying a finger on me.
I hate him for it.
I hate how beautiful he is.
I hate how much it hurts that he’s looking at me while someone else is still sitting on the counter in our kitchen.
I hate how badly I want him to keep looking.
She doesn’t leave.
The blonde shifts on the counter as if she belongs there, as if no one caught her in someone else’s house at eight in the morning, her bare legs swinging lazily while she takes Kai’s mug from his hand without asking.
She takes a sip, makes a little face at how bitter it is, and sets it back down, leaving a smear of red lipstick on the rim.
I don’t know why that tiny mark makes my stomach twist so violently, but it does. A stain. A brand. Proof that she had his mouth close enough to touch.
Kai doesn’t stop her. He just chuckles, low, like she’s amusing, and says, ‘That’s mine.’
She grins back at him, lips curling slowly. ‘Not anymore.’
Their eyes meet, heat simmering between them, and I swear I feel my pulse in my teeth. My nails dig into the ceramic of my own mug until I’m scared it’ll crack, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something reckless.
I shouldn’t care. I can’t care. He’s not mine.
He can flirt with whoever he wants, bring home whoever follows him from whatever bar he haunts — but the sound of her laugh, the way his smile curves, the little tilt of his head when she touches him again — it all crawls under my skin like fire ants, burning until there’s nothing left but anger and want tangled together in a knot I can’t untie.
Finally, like he’s bored, Kai turns back towards me. His smirk lingers, but his eyes are darker now, colder, and when he speaks, it’s deliberate, slow.
‘Scarlett, this is Ava,’ he says, his voice like a blade slicing through the air. ‘We met last night.’
Ava. The name tastes sour just hearing it. She waves half-heartedly, clearly more interested in him than me, and says, ‘Hey.’
I nod, stiff, my throat too tight for words.
Kai takes his mug back from her, lifts it, and holds my gaze over the rim as he drinks from the exact spot she left her lipstick. He doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t even blink.
I know — he’s doing it for me.
Ava doesn’t take the hint — if there even was one. She swings her legs, her dress sliding higher, and leans towards Kai with a grin that says she’s not used to being ignored.
‘So,’ she says, voice sweet like candy left too long in the sun, ‘is this where you hide out? Big house, quiet town, sister in the kitchen…’
Her words hit me like a slap, but Kai only laughs under his breath. ‘Something like that.’
Her hand drifts across the back of his chair, fingertips brushing the curve of his shoulder like she’s testing how far she can push, and he doesn’t stop her.
He doesn’t even flinch. He just tips his head towards her, close enough that his hair falls into his eyes, and murmurs something I can’t catch.
She giggles, a sound that grates down my spine. ‘You’re terrible.’