“No.” He halts the plate, eyes hard. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Something akin to shame burdens my shoulders. I refuse to answer.
Softer, he says, “Eat, Princess.”
It almost sounds like a plea.
With two fingers, I rip a corner off and moan when the buttery flakes hit my tongue. His eyes turn heated, but I don’t care. I’m ravenous, devouring the pastry so quickly, I choke.
Chuckling, he shoves the mug at me. “Fuck off,” I wheeze.
“Maybe later.”
As I rinse my mouth, his fingers tap the table. “Is he gone?”
I glare over my cup. “I feel like you already know that.”
“Perhaps,” he drawls, fingers still moving. “I find it odd he’d leave you so quickly, though.”
Of course, he was watching.“How so?”
“Because, Princess,” he says, leaning forward. His gaze captures mine, and I freeze. Using his thumb, he traces my bottom lip, the digit calloused but gentle.
Glancing down, I see the chocolate covering it before he licks it clean. My stomach clenches, and my cheeks darken. “Normalmen don’t leave beautiful women on a date unless under threat of death. Sometimes, for those of us who aren’t afraid of death, even then. We certainly don’t leave because our lunch break was over.”
I don’t ask how he knows what he does—Killian knows everything.
Folding his arms, he curls forward. “Did you clock them?”
My eyes flicker to the ceiling mirror again, and he looks up, silently laughing.
“Three tables back. On the left. Woman and man.”
“Good.”
“Recognize them?” Killian is a terrifying hitman on his best day. He tends to know the other assassins in the world. They all have an unlikely truce when on a job.
Or, in reality, they don’t want to piss off the Reaper in his backyard.
“Not them,” he admits, stealing my coffee for a sip. “Do you have your gun?” His gaze skirts over my chest and down my belly to my hips. Desire rises behind those dead eyes, and I shift, damp between my legs. It’s like a damn switch whenever he’s around.
“Are you patronizing me?”
“Hardly.” He snorts. “But in that tight a dress, it leaves little to the imagination. I’m not complaining—though I did consider smashing the butt of my gun into every single prick in this café who was looking at you—it also makes hiding a weapon difficult.” He clears his throat. “Where is it?”
Pointing to the floor, I say, “Bag.”
“Knives?”
“Thigh.”
Swallowing, he looks over my shoulder, as if to rebuild his resolve.
I’ll admit, I’m having trouble focusing too. It’s too easy to remember his blade against my body, the pain and pleasure, and his dominance from a few nights ago.
Exactly why I can’t let him back in. Killian destroyed me—and yet, here I am thinking about him between my legs. I’m a fucking idiot—and my mind is a mess. I can’t lose focus. My only concern should be on finding the mole and ending the Board.
Not the Reaper before me.
