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But as the seconds tick past and Kane watches me with those perceptive green eyes, it starts to feel less and less uncomfortable.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe I should be proud of myself.

As if he can hear my thoughts, his smile finally stretches the full distance.

“Confidence looks good on you, Lilah Dorsey,” he says.

“Is that, like, the mob boss version of how creepy guys on the street say, ‘You look prettier when you smile, sweet cheeks’?”

Kane chuckles. “Smile? Fuck that. I’d rather see you snarling while your fangs drip with the blood of your enemies. Much sexier, in my opinion.”

I blush like I can’t seem to stop doing in his presence. “I’m sure you would, you psycho. Anyway, can we talk about literally anything else? I’m getting hives from sitting in the spotlight for too long.”

He laughs again. “I liked today.”

“Washing dishes was fun for you?”

“I don’t mind the manual labor. But what I truly enjoyed was taking orders from you.” He twists the stem of his wine glass between his tattooed fingers. “Nobody gives me instructions anymore. Hasn’t happened in twenty years. It was a fun change of pace.”

I arch a brow, not sure whether to be impressed or wary. “I find this hard to believe.”

He shrugs. “I’m telling the truth. It was a good day.”

“What about the part where you threatened my nineteen-year-old delivery driver?”

“That was on your behalf,” he argues. “And he did what we needed, did he not?”

“I’m pretty sure he was crying in the alley during his ‘smoke break.’“

“But the roses were perfect, yes?”

I laugh. “‘Psycho’ might be understating things. I think you’re more unhinged than you’re letting on.”

“Oh, sladkaya, you don’t know the half of it.”

We eat and drink our way through a few courses. The food is otherworldly and the wine is fizzing pleasantly in my bloodstream, making all my limbs feel like they’re glowing and accompanied by a chorus of angels.

Little by little, I’m losing track of myself, but in the best way possible. For so long, I’ve kept an eye inward. How do I look? How can I deflect the attention from me?

But that inner critic is slowly getting its volume turned down.

I think I know exactly who to thank for that.

As the entrees are cleared, I set my glass down and hear myself say, “You promised me something in my office.”

Kane’s eyes burn bright green.

“I did.”

“So say it.”

“Say what?”

“You keep making me say what I want,” I remind him. “Now, it’s your turn. I’ve had enough wine and sleep deprivation to feel crazy, so that’s my crazy request. Tell me what you want.”

Kane sets his own glass down. He takes his time.