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Not because I’m afraid of being stabbed when I walk through my door.
Right. Sure.
“Minka Mayet?” I stride onto the fourth floor and glance around the landing until I get eyes on our door. The tarnished 4B, discolored and flimsy. The lock that stops no one, but it’s noisy enough to act like a siren in the night. I could secure our home more, replace the door, add reinforcement, and a new keyless entry system.
But sometimes less is better.
Sometimes, basics are all we need.
Plus a little old guy sitting on the stairs four flights down.
My gun seems to vibrate against my thigh, and my stomach whooshes as I slow my steps and move toward our apartment door.
What will I find inside?
What does my life look like now that I’ve gone and taken away her free will… even if only for an hour or two.
“Babe?” I reach up with my left hand and loop my finger through the ring dangling around my neck, and extending my right, I grab the doorknob and twist it open until the catch releases and the seal breaks. “Minka?” Hesitantly, I place my foot on the threshold and slowly inch the door open, using my shoulder. I guess in case she thinks to kick it shut again and lock me out. Making my way inside, I swallow the nervous lump in my throat, then stop again when I discover her sitting on the kitchen counter. Her eyes, directly on me.
She’s put her hair up since I last saw her. Changed out of her clothes and into my shirt.
She’s barefoot, but I’ll be damned if I don’t notice the fresh black and silver polish she painted on her toes.
“Um…” Gulping, I drag my eyes up and stop on her too-sweet smile. “Hey.”
“Hi, honey.” She presses her hands to the counter, taking her weight in her palms as she slides off and sets her feet on the floor. She wears panties beneath my shirt, but that’s all. No pants. No bra. Nothing but a Copeland City P.D. top and that sparkling nail polish. Too pleasant and way too fucking calm, she saunters my way and places her hands on my chest. “I missed you.”
She moves to the tips of her toes and presses a kiss to my lips.
Though I’m ashamed to admit this is the first time, ever, I don’t kiss her back.
Since the moment I met her, my body has known what to do. My lips have known to claim hers and keep them. But today, she’s too calm. Too cool. And way too fucking terrifying.
“I… Uh…” I clear my throat. “I missed you, too.”
She drops back to flat feet and grins wide enough that dimples pop on her cheeks. “How was work?” Turning on her heels like we don’t have a metric ton of marriage counseling to get through, she leaves me where I am, still too stunned to move, and heads to the oven I’m not sure we’ve ever used since living here.
Bending, and showing off the best ass I’ve ever known, she takes out a plate stacked with steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans.
“Did you…” I drag my bottom lip between my teeth, watching on in horror as she sets the plate on the counter and goes back for a second. “Did you order in?”
“No.” She places the second plate down and yanks the silverware drawer open to retrieve knives and forks. “I had all this spare time this afternoon while you were working.” She pulls out a stool and perches her ass on the edge, crossing her delicious legs, and stabs the fork into the potatoes. “I cooked for us. To show you my appreciation.”
“Your appreciation for…” I study the meal she set out for me from five feet away. Is it poisoned? Is it gross? Hell, did she let the cat shit all over it first? “Your appreciation for what?”
“You.” She slides a forkful of potatoes between her lips. “You work so hard for us, and I realized I probably take that for granted. Here,” she picks up the second fork, collects fresh beans from her plate, and offers them my way. “Eat. I bet you’re starving.”
She already ate from that plate. She survived. And now she’s offering some to me.
“Sit with me,” she croons, “It won’t taste nearly as good once it’s cold.”
“Um…” Slowly starting forward, I come close enough to accept the fork and hesitantly slide it past my lips; then, while I chew, I wander to my stool opposite hers and sit down. “Delicious. Thanks.” Frowning, I set the fork down and look around in search of something to drink. “You know how to cook?”
“Of course.” She bounds up from her chair and heads to the fridge, almost as though anticipating my thirst. So while she has her back turned, I switch our plates.
Like a cowardly thief, I pick hers up and swap it for mine. Setting hers down between my silverware and mine where my murderer will sit.
Fuck. But I don’t want her to die either.
