Page 45 of Dash

I peeked out from behind the door and considered him again. Was he for real?

“Okay, you win.” I shut the fridge and faced him again. “You’ve succeeded at giving me the chills.”

“That’s good, ma’am.” He kept his attention on the pot. “It means you have survival instincts and now your brain is alert and functioning.”

True. I’d been wallowing so deep in my misery that I hadn’t even noticed he was there when I’d first arrived in the kitchen. This disconnection with my situational awareness was dangerous for a woman being hunted by a murderer. This man had done me a service. He’d jumpstarted my brain and shifted my focus from my misery to him.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“My watch started a couple of hours ago, ma’am,” he replied, keeping his attention on the pot’s contents.

He was an odd one. His bass was so deep that it seemed to rise from the bottom of his diaphragm. For all I knew it came from the depths of the earth. His size alone should make for a brutish appearance and ponderous movements, but this wasn’t the case. He moved like he spoke, with graceful precision. He reminded me of a majestic warship navigating my kitchen with great purpose.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Micah Bozeman, ma’am.”

“I’ve heard about you before.” Dash, Nix, and Trev had often mentioned him in front of me. “Everyone spoke highly of you.”

“I’ve heard about you as well, ma’am.” He didn’t bother to elaborate. He didn’t care to flatter me, either.

“You served with Dash on his Raider team,” I recalled.

“It was my honor, ma’am.”

“Do you always speak like this?” I asked.

“Like how, ma’am?”

“So formally and minimally, so… soldier-like.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

Great. I might as well be speaking to a robot. “What are you doing in my kitchen, Micah Bozeman?”

“Omega asked me to keep you safe. So, I’m keeping you safe.” He ladled a string of what looked like fettucine onto a plate. “He also asked me to feed you. So, I’m gonna feed you.”

“I can feed myself,” I countered, trying to reclaim some of my feistiness and rise above my despair. “I can also order out.”

“No, ma’am.” He settled the plate on the kitchen counter, fished a fork from the drawer, and plunked it down on the white quartzite. “This is the food you’ll eat. Omega made this himself. You will not be poisoned during my watch.”

“Dash made this for me?” I considered the plate, surprised.

“He did, ma’am.” Micah crossed his chiseled arms and stood next to counter as if he were a colossal monolith looming over the plate. “He came here to make your food and left about twenty minutes ago.”

“If that’s the case, he probably poisoned it himself,” I mumbled sullenly.

Micah skewered me with his shrewd stare. “One does notgo to the trouble of feeding a target marked for elimination.”

“Good point.” I sat down on the high stool and tossed the pasta with my fork. “So, you don’t think he abhors me?”

“I do not, ma’am.” He jerked his chin toward the food. “Eat.”

What else was there to do?

I dug in.

“After the flavorless food at the hospital, this tastes like glory.” I licked my lips, and twirling the fork, rolled up my next bite. “You want some?”

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