His mouth quirks. "I did. But then again… things got a little more interesting here in your quiet little sanctuary."
We both stare at the door she vanished through.
"We're fucked, aren't we?" Kayden mutters, this time without humor.
"Maybe," I say quietly. "We'll see."
We stand there for a long beat, the night air heavy between us.
"She's trouble," Kayden says finally, voice low, but there's something wistful in the way he says it.
"She'sintrouble," I correct.
He glances at me, one brow raised. "That too."
"Let's focus on helping her," I add, though we both know that neither of us is unaffected.
In the end, it's her move. She'll have to figure out if she wants to run again or stay.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sage
Second night spent in the predator house, and I wake up alive. And rested. That last part throws me more than it should.
The smell hits me as I descend the stairs—rich coffee, something sweet baking. It's oddly domestic. Dangerously comforting.
In the kitchen, I find Asher at the counter, wearing a fitted black T-shirt that might as well be stampedmilitary surplusacross the chest and dark sport pants that hang just loose enough to be casual. He's hunched over a waffle maker, focused like it's a tactical operation. But he still hears me.
"Good morning, Sage," he says without turning. "I hope you slept better this time."
I pause, narrowing my eyes at his back. Is that… an innuendo? Does he know about what happened with Kayden the night before?
I keep my tone neutral. "Good morning. I did, actually. Thanks. Are you making… waffles?"
"Observant," he replies, glancing at me. "When I listed the breakfast options last night, you visibly lit up at the mention. So…"
He tilts his head and lifts the lid of the waffle maker like he's revealing gold bars. And honestly, close enough—perfectly golden, crisp-edged waffles, steaming gently in the cool morning air.
"I won't say no to that," I admit, as he places the plate in front of me with the kind of precision that feels oddly intimate. "I haven't exactly been having homemade meals lately."
"I figured," he says, setting down a small spread: maple syrup, freshly whisked whipped cream, and two types of jam. "Didn't know which was your favorite."
It's too thoughtful and too kind. It presses against something sore inside me, so I deflect.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're trying to fatten me up to eat me later."
And then I hear the words out loud.
My eyes flick to his, but it's too late—there's already a smirk ghosting across his face.
"If we're talking blood," he says, "the waffles wouldn't make much difference. And if we're not…"
"I was talking about blood," I respond too quickly.
His expression doesn't change. Still calm and composed. Just the faint curve of amusement tugging at his mouth. He nods, like we've just concluded a perfectly rational breakfast conversation.
I sigh, sit down, and let the waffle distract me. It's warm, sweet, and indulgent. Like something I haven't let myself have in a long time.
