I slip out of bed. My legs wobble at first because I haven’t slept in a bed this soft in ages. I steady myself against the nightstand, then follow the smell down the stairs and through the living area we crossed last night to the other side of the entrance hall.
Danyl stands at the stove.
I stop in the doorway, because the sight is so startling I almost laugh.
The man is a sculpture in motion. Broad shoulders fill out a black t-shirt, strong forearms cord as he flips something in a pan. His hair is damp, freshly washed, pushed back. No suit jacket. No gun in sight. Just…him.
He turns his head slightly, eyes still on the pan, as if he was listening for my steps.
“You’re awake.” His voice slides over me, low and smooth and impossibly controlled.
I hover in place. “You’re…cooking?”
“Obviously.”
That makes me blink. “Can’t your staff do that?” I assume a large apartment like this comes with staff. But what do I know?
He shakes his head once. “Not today.”
“Why not?”
He finally looks at me. His expression is unreadable but not cold. More like he’s gauging my temperature. Like I’m something combustible he doesn’t know how to handle.
“Because I don’t want anyone overhearing.” He pauses for a beat. “And because you’re my wife. The first breakfast you have here should be from my hands, not someone else’s.”
My pulse stutters, then races. Whosaysthings like that? And how does this fit in with the disciplined decisive man I married last night?
I cross my arms to hide the sudden tremor in my fingers. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I did,” he interrupts and turns back to the stove. “It’s important.”
Important how? He doesn’t explain. I don’t ask because I’m not sure if we’re discussing getting married or cooking breakfast and I’m too exhausted and overwhelmed to process the former. But my stomach growls again, so obviously my body is okay the latter.
I ease into the kitchen, taking in the dark granite counters, the wall of windows, the gleaming steel appliances. His world is quiet and precise and expensive. In my apartment, outside noise assaults my ears all hours of the day and night and the space is cramped. I keep it clean, but the old linoleum floor and cracked counters have generations of dirt imbedded that will never come out.
Danyl plates eggs, roasted potatoes, and buttered toast. He slides the plate onto the kitchen island. “Sit.” The command isn’t sharp but solid in a way that makes me instantly obey.
He sits beside me, not across from me, and the quiet between us feels safe, heavy, and …strange.
After a moment he asks softly, “How did you sleep?”
“Like a rock.” A nervous laugh escapes my lips. “A rock in someone else’s house.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. But close. “This is your house too now.”
My heart does something strange and fluttery. He acts like this is my home. I look around at the gleaming perfectness around me. This is not an environment I’d ever fit in. Not in my borrowed t-shirt and boxer briefs, both which are too large for me, and with hair that I’m sure is a nest of knots. It always is when I wake up. I push food around the plate to hide my feelings of inadequacy. “Thank you. For breakfast.”
“You’re welcome.”
He watches me eat. Not in a creepy way. More like he’s checking to make sure I’m eating. Like he cares about my well-being.
I don’t know to feel about that, so I eat a few bites.
I want to ask what happened to the dead man, and his car. And what we’re supposed to do now. What I’m supposed to do know. But before any of that happens, a chime sounds.
Danyl stiffens immediately, muscles locking tight. His hand moves under the counter where I realize there’s a concealed holster. With his other hand, he pulls out his phone and checks the screen. “It’s Rik,” he says. Relief softens his posture, but only slightly.
“Who’s Rik?” I whisper.
