Page 41 of The Cost of Silence

I should hate that it makes me feel anchored.

I don’t.

I slide onto the stool beside him. He’s already reaching to the side before I can speak, pulling a plate toward me—toast, eggs, sliced fruit.

“When did you cook?” I ask, surprised.

“I didn’t,” he says, deadpan. “I have people who do that. They drop things off when I ask.”

“Must be nice.”

His mouth twitches. “It is.”

I pick up a fork, then pause. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

His gaze holds mine. Steady. Quiet. Something unreadable flickers in it. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I did, and I have to eat so it’s no bother.”

Heat flickers in my cheeks.

I clear my throat. “So… your brothers. Last night. Did you figure anything out?”

He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. The movement pulls his shirt tighter across his chest, because of course it does, and of course I notice. I might be his enemy, but I still have a pulse, and currently it’s beating in places it shouldn’t be.

“We made a plan,” he says. “You’re going to help.”

That pulls me upright. “Help? With… what?”

Nico nods at my fork suspended halfway to my mouth. “Eat and I’ll tell you.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes darken as his pupils blow out with desire, his gaze on my lips before they take a slow walk down my body, and land back on my face. “I’m happy for you to call me sir, my little Belle, but I’d prefer it if you were on your knees with your mouth wrapped around my cock when you did.”

I choke on my own spit at his dirty words. I should be scandalized, offended, yet I can’t help but squirm with need at the picture he painted.

“Now, eat up and I’ll explain.”

And just like that, he’s all business again, but I’m over here with a thousand thoughts in my head and every one of them ends in a sweaty, dirty, satisfying orgasm. His eyes are locked on me as I force food into my mouth.

“Your story,” he says, like it’s obvious and none of the middle part of this interaction happened. “Your digging, your skills as a journalist. We want you to keep doing it.”

I blink. “I thought you wanted me to stop.”

“I want you safe,” he corrects. “But you said you needed to work. And you’re good at what you do. So, you’ll keep investigating from here. With restrictions. And with oversight.”

I want to preen at the compliment but I’m stuck on the word oversight. “Oversight?”

He smirks, slow and infuriating. “Me.”

My pulse does something inconvenient. “What exactly would I be doing?”

“You’ll chase leads we give you,” he replies. “Follow breadcrumbs. Connect dots. My brothers will use what you find. And you’ll stay in this penthouse while you do it.”

I open my mouth to argue.

He raises a brow, already winning. “Isabella, look at your hands.”

I glance down.