She leans farther out despite the rain. “Sweet Tooth opens at six thirty. If you’re ever hungry, come by. I mean it. Coffee, breakfast, whatever. On the house.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I do not take charity.”
“Then call it payment for security services rendered.”
“I did not ask for payment.”
“And I didn’t ask you to guard my back door, but here we are.”
I turn enough to face her more fully, and that is a mistake because her eyes are clear even in the dim light. Blue, direct, and far too unafraid. She should not look at me like that. People who look at me like that get close. People who get close become names carved into the inside of my skull.
“You should be afraid of me,” I say.
She studies me with infuriating care. “Are you planning to hurt me?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll prioritize being afraid of the people who are.”
“That is not wisdom.”
“No, that’s triage.”
I have no answer ready.
Her expression gentles, and that is worse than the teasing. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to. But if you’rehungry, there’ll be food. If you’re cold, there’ll be coffee. If you just want to stand outside and scowl at the building, I guess that’s your business, but I reserve the right to mock you through the window.”
“You mock dangerous strangers often?”
“Only the ones who save my bakery from getting robbed.”
I should tell her I am not safe. I should tell her the universe does not hand out monsters and wounded soldiers so kind women can turn them into house pets with cinnamon rolls. I should tell her every person who has counted on me has paid for it in fire, blood, or grief.
Instead, I say, “Lock your window.”
She lifts her brows. “That your version of good night?”
“Yes.”
“Needs work.”
“Good night, Evie.”
“Good night, Kauss.”
I walk away before she can say anything else. Her window closes behind me with a soft scrape, followed by the click of the lock. Sensible. Finally.
The alley empties into Mercy Street, where the rain turns the neon reflections into broken ribbons under my boots. I tell myself I will not go to the bakery at six thirty. I tell myself I will not alter my patrol route again. I tell myself Evie’s voice repeating my name does not matter.
Every lie tastes different.
This one tastes like cinnamon in the rain.
CHAPTER 3
