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I roll my eyes and swivel my stool, diverting my attention to the glass doors, the daylight no longer in existence.
I want Luca to return. Having no buffer between me and Cole’s attempts at humor is starting to get to me. I don’t want to see him as a man. He needs to remain a criminal. A murderer. But with each passing second, I’m becoming more and more settled.
“After you kill your father, how long do I have to wait before I can go home?”
The rhythmic stirring of the pan doesn’t stop; neither does the sound of him adding broth.
“As soon as I can accommodate it.”
I turn back to him, raising a brow. “I want specifics, with your word being your bond and all that.”
“I’m well aware of your urgency to get away from me.” There’s a gentleness to his voice. Understanding. I don’t like it. “But the aftermath is unpredictable. There’s the issue of cleaning up and disposing of evidence. Not to mention getting out of here with all our lives intact.”
I ignore his attempt to scare me into submission. “Are we talking hours? Days? Weeks?”
He meets my gaze and holds it. “If I can’t get you out of here within twenty-four hours, something has gone wrong, and the least of my concerns will be breaking any promises I’ve made to you.”
Okay, so maybe I’m slightly daunted with the continued mention of danger. It’s one thing to stare down the barrel of a life-threatening situation with a gun in-hand and a partner at my side. It’s quite another to do it unarmed with the enemy as my only shield. “And how will you dispose of evidence?”
He sighs. “Is it too much to ask for us to enjoy di
I stare at the offering, then him, not trusting either.
“Scared?” he asks.
He’s baiting me. I know he is.
My assumption is confirmed when I snatch the spoon and take a taste, bringing his laughter to life.
I gave him exactly what he wanted—retaliation—but I don’t care. Not when deliciousness consumes my mouth.
The risotto is good. Really good.
“Do you approve?” He watches me, waiting for praise I’m loath to give.
I take my time, finishing the food slowly before I swallow. “It’s…”
“Delicious? Perfect? The best thing you’ve ever tasted?” He dusts his hands, then wipes them on a tea towel. “You know it’s not a sin to pay me a compliment.”
“How can you be sure?” I hand back the spoon. “What I was actually going to say is ‘surprising.’”
“I own a chain of award-wi
“Okay, so I made an inaccurate assessment. Sue me.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not your first.”
I bite my tongue, unwilling to continue the verbal te
Maybe I have made false judgments. But so has he. I’m not the righteous bitch who’s always peering down from her high horse.
“How long until you’re done?” I push from my stool, needing more space than the few feet of distance the island counter provides.
“Minutes, if not seconds.” He pours the last of the broth into the pan and stirs. “Could you do me a favor and get the plates?”
I pretend reluctance isn’t eating me from the inside out. I don’t want to help him any more than I already am. But they’re only plates. And I have to eat.
I make my way to the far wall of cupboards, opening one, then another, and another.
“Here.” He closes in behind me, the gentle brush of his presence making me stiffen as he opens the cupboard beside my thigh.
He’s there and gone in seconds. Close then far in a brutal case of nerve-tingling whiplash.
“Do you need anything else?” I grab the damn plates and dump them on the counter beside him.
“What kind of scope do I have with my answer? Because that’s a loaded question coming from a Fed to someone about to commit murder.”
I grind my teeth. I won’t let him keep poking me.
I can’t.
“Your scope is minimal. I’m talking about cutlery or salt and pepper.”
“They’re already on the table.”
I glance at the eight-seater table near the window with its three place settings close together at one end. Nope. No way. I’m not going to spend u
“I’ll eat in my room.”
I’m not being antagonistic or petulant. I need space.
It’s imperative.
I have to get away from all the confusion.
“Okay.” He takes a risotto-filled plate to the oven, opens the door and uses tongs to place shrimp on top. “Here you go.”
He holds out the plate and I grasp it, latching on like it’s a prize when in reality, it’s a temporary escape plan. But he doesn’t let go. He holds tight, wordlessly demanding me to meet his gaze.
I don’t want to comply. Not when I know cocky arrogance will greet me.
Only the standoff is worse.
He remains close. Silent. Entirely menacing with his calm patience until I raise my gaze and come face-to-face with concern.
“Are you okay?” His brow furrows. His lips thin. “You’re tense.”
Again, his confidence grates on me. His worry is even worse. He’s not asking if I’m tense. He’s already made the claim as if he can read me like a book.
“Sure am,” I drawl. “Being here is better than Disneyland.”
His lips twitch, and I tug on the plate before he hits me with a full-blown grin. Then it’s straight to the cutlery drawer for a fork before I’m striding away, into my now dark room.
I leave the lights off, preferring the comfort of the moonlight through the window to soothe me as I eat on the bed.
Each swallow of risotto is an agonizing chore. I detest every time I have to refill my spoon, because the flavor is thoroughly delicious—the shrimp even better—and I don’t want to acknowledge Cole is responsible for the brilliance.
I practically lick the plate clean, then glare at it with disgust as I place it on the nightstand.
Why does he have to be entirely normal in some moments and a monster in others? Why can’t he pick a path and stick to it?
It hasn’t skipped my attention he’s never mentioned his concern for the women held captive. His motivation is based on reputation. To remove the perverted taint on his name from his father’s actions.
I’m only here because his word can’t be trusted, not even with his business associates, drug lords, or whoever else I’m meant to inform about Luther’s death.
The world knows he’s a liar.
A manipulator.
And I just downed a plateful of his cooking while daydreaming he was my personal chef.
I groan with the guilt and stretch out on the bed, my head on the pillow, with a perfect view of the stars.
I can’t remember the last time I simply laid back and watched the night sky. It would’ve been a lifetime ago, when memories of my past didn’t haunt me through the quiet.
Still moments overwhelm me, because the nothingness quickly fills with pain. After all these years, I can’t forgive my father. His actions were the catalyst to the end of my happiness.
We’d been the perfect family—me, Mom, and Dad.
Then he changed.
It was as if a switch flipped and my level-headed, smart, caring father turned into a paranoid, possessive stranger who refused to discuss his personality change. The man I’d admired and shaped my future career around became a shell of who I thought he was.