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When I try to leave, Khaos grabs my hand.

A jerk of his head at the oven, he says, “Turn it back on.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to make the bread anymore.”

“You’re quitting again?”

Yes. “No. I’m just over it.”

Unfortunately, my belly isn’t because it chooses this exact moment to growl. Loudly.

“Miss Champion is quitting because she didn’t get something right the first time.”

“She is right here. Don’t talk about me like I’m not.”

“Then fucking show me. Prove you’re you and not some fuck-ass quitter.”

Why does a fuck-ass quitter sound way worse than a regular quitter?

“I can’t. The bread is ruined,” I tell him with as little emotion as possible, all of it getting stuffed deep, deep down.

“It’s not ruined.”

“It doesn’t even have bananas!” explodes out of me because it wasn’t deep. It’s all just simmering below the surface, looking for an escape.

Judging by the tears now streaming down my face, it’s found one. Damn it.

“Jesus, you’re leaking.”

Voice nasally and unrecognizable, I tell him, “Finally, you got your wish,” before wiping under my nose with the back of my wrist.

“Not the kind of leaking I’m interested in. Come here.”

Without waiting for me to respond, Khaos cups my cheeks and pulls me toward him. Using a gentleness I didn’t know a man his size was capable of, he rubs his thumbs under my eyes, clearing the tears there like a human windshield wiper.

My eyes flick between his. How can someone who looks so dangerous feel so safe?

With a much softer tone, he says, “The only tears I want to see a woman shed are from pleasure.”

If I thought I could scoff without launching snot at him, I would. He clearly doesn’t know women.

After the moment stretches too long, he asks, “It just needs bananas?”

Too afraid to speak, all I manage is a nod.

“All right.” He turns the oven on again, then taking my hand, walks me over to the breakfast bar and pulls out a stool for me. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, I’m following the gray swirls in the arabescato corchia marble countertop when something small and furry lands right where I’m staring.

“What’s this?” I ask Khaos.

“A cat.”

I flip the stuffed animal over. It is a cat. A black cat, whose entire body fits between the palms of my hands.