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She giggles. “I can imagine. Do you want some cocoa?”
Her cheeks flush when she says that, like it’s an inside joke that I’m not part of. “Okay,” I say. “It’s not something I usually go for, but I’ll have some. Got any marshmallows?”
She gives me a horrified glare. “Of course. What do you think this is?”
Pushing the kitchen door open, she flicks on the lights and heads straight to the kettle to turn it on. It starts to boil merrily away while she fusses about getting me the painkillers I don’t really need, but the excuse was perfect to go and see her. It looks like I was a bit late to the party, though, with Dante already sniffing around her. It didn’t take him long, but then it never did.
We stay silent through the cocoa-making process and then she hands me a big mug topped with tiny marshmallows and two painkillers.
“Thanks,” I mutter, a bit dumbstruck for the first time in my life.
“No worries,” she murmurs. “Can I ask what your issue is with Gideon?”
The blunt question comes out of the blue and startles me. “It’s a long story.”
She nods. “Code for you don’t want to tell me.”
Chuckling, I blow on the cocoa. “Can’t sweetheart. There’s stuff you are not allowed to know.”
“Spy stuff?” She huffs and leans against the kitchen island.
Spy stuff?“Sure.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me. But I’ll tell you what I told Dante. Don’t hurt him.”
“Can’t promise that.”
“You’d better, or I’m taking my cocoa back.” She reaches for the mug, but I hold it out of her reach.
“Hey,” I complain. “Rude. This is mine. You made it for me.”
“And I’ll totally take it back if you don’t make me the promise right now not to hurt Gideon. Or Dante, for that matter.”
“You dislike violence.” It’s a statement that doesn’t require an answer. I knew that about her the second I laid eyes on her. She is sweet, kind and gentle. There isn’t even a speck of darkness lurking in her soul. Too bad mine is pitch black and will never be anything else.
“Of course I do. Only psychos enjoy it,” she snaps.
“Ouch, but not inaccurate. I’ll take the hit.”
Isla’s eyes narrow. “You think of yourself as a psycho?”
“Sweetheart, if only you knew what I am capable of.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I don’t see you running.”
She presses her lips together. “Touché.”
Smirking, I take a sip of the steaming cocoa and then down the painkillers still clutched in my hand. After I’ve swallowed the pills, I search her eyes until she looks away. “You aren’t scared of me, are you, Isla?”
She shakes her head. “I should be. I know that. My head is screaming at me to run.”
“So why don’t you, then?”
“Good point,” she murmurs. “Maybe you’re all talk.”
Almost choking on my cocoa, I refrain from saying anything else on this matter right now. She would sprint, not run, a thousand miles away from me if she knew. “Maybe,” I mutter.
