He looks up, catching my eye with that predatory smirk that always brings the Carver into focus. “You’re late,” he says,teasing. “Dinner’s getting cold. Figured I’d show you I’m good at carving all kinds of meat.”
The knife in his hand glints under the kitchen lights, and the double entendre lands like a punch. He’s not just talking about the steak. My pulse spikes, a mix of fury and something darker, something that remembers the way he used to wield blades with surgical precision. I drop my bag by the door, kick off my heels, and force myself to move toward the table, my body thrumming with the tension from Shaw’s interrogation and the surreal normalcy of this scene.
“How was your day, Dr. North?” Kent asks, sliding into the chair across from me, his tone deceptively casual as he pours wine into my glass. “Catch any monsters?”
I glare at him, sitting down because standing feels like admitting he’s already won. “It was fine,” I say, my voice clipped, reaching for the wine to avoid his gaze. “Consultations, case reviews, the usual.”
“Usual,” he repeats, leaning back, his eyes never leaving my face. “You don’t look like a woman who’s had a usual day. You look like someone who’s been dodging landmines.”
I take a sip of the wine, the rich bitterness grounding me for a moment.
He’s not wrong, but I’m not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much Shaw’s questions rattled me. “Just another day analyzing people like you,” I say, cutting into the steak with more force than necessary. “People who think violence is a personality trait.”
He chuckles, infuriatingly unfazed, watching me chew the bite I take. The steak is faultless—juicy, medium-rare, seasoned to perfection. “You’re eating my food, Delilah,” he drawls.“Doesn’t get more domestic than that. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to move in permanently.”
The wordpermanentlysnaps something inside me, the tension from Shaw’s probing, from the day’s careful navigation of lies, from the way Kent’s presence keeps unraveling my control.
I swallow the bite, slamming my fork down, the clatter loud in the quiet apartment.
“You think you can just play house?” I snap, standing so fast my chair scrapes against the floor. “Cook me dinner, act like you belong here, like you can tame me now that you know I’m as fucked up as you always were?”
His brows flit up his forehead in record time, as if he’s actually stunned that he’s pissing me off. Like it’s a surprise to him, that I’m not swooning over this fucking act. “Tame you, Delilah? I wouldn’t dare. I’m just feeding the beast I helped create.”
The words hit too close, stoking the rage I’ve been carrying all day—rage at Shaw, at the copycat, at myself for letting him back into my life. I want to scream, to shatter something, to make him feel the chaos he’s unleashed by being here.
But before I can, he sets the knife down and gestures to the table, his voice dropping to a command that vibrates through me. “Come here. You’re being incredibly rude when all I’ve done is spoil you.”
I should tell him to fuck off, to get out of my space, but my feet move before my brain can catch up. It’s not obedience—it’s the pull of the Carver, the part of him that matches the darkest parts of me. I stalk to his side of the table, glaring, my body thrumming with defiance and need. He doesn’t touch me, justwatches, his gaze stripping me bare as I stand there, refusing to sit.
“Wash my knife for me,” he says, picking up the carving knife and holding it out, the blade still slick with juices from the steak. His voice is calm, but there’s a challenge in it, a dare to see if I’ll bend.
I snatch the knife from him, my fingers brushing his, and for a moment, I consider pressing the blade to his throat, just to remind him who’s in control.
Something in his eyes—the raw, unfiltered hunger of the man who killed my father—makes me pause.
I can’t help myself when he looks like this, when I see the Carver instead of just Kent.
So I turn to the sink, scrubbing the blade with soap and water, the suds sliding over my fingers as I try to regain some semblance of control.
Behind me, I hear the scrape of his chair as he pushes it back, the sound making me shiver. Like every nerve-ending in my body knows he’s preparing for what comes next.
I finish washing the knife, my hands trembling not from fear but from the electric anticipation crackling through me. I turn, stalking back to the table, the knife still in my hand, and find him sitting there, legs spread, his posture all lazy confidence.
"Take off your panties."
When I still, scowling at him, he rolls his eyes with attitude that makes my stomach roil. “Are you fucking—”
"Or I could always cut them off and shove them in that mouth of yours," he suggests.
My chest is tight as I reach under my skirt, pulse thundering in my ears, and draw damp lace down my legs and step out of it.
He watches with blown pupils, his lips parted just so.
I only just manage to keep from shaking when he reaches out, taking the knife from me, his fingers lingering on mine. “Open your mouth, Delilah,” he says, his words commanding, holding the knife handle toward me.
Again, I hesitate, my breath catching. Yet the look in his eyes—pure Carver, all hunger and control—pulls me under. I part my lips, and he slides the blunt handle into my mouth, pushing it deep until it hits the back of my throat. I gag, my eyes watering, but he doesn’t relent, holding it there as saliva pools, soaking the handle. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dark with approval. “Make it nice and wet for me.”
He sweeps his arm across the table, sending plates and glasses crashing to the floor, the shattering porcelain amplifying the chaos between us. I flinch so hard I bite down on the handle.
