Page 57 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

He pushes off the door frame and strides over to the hob, eyebrow quirking as he surveys the carnage in the pan. I can feel the laughter vibrating under the surface just like when I ran into the cupboard earlier.

“Besides,” I huff, “someone threw away my phone.”

“What would you need your phone for?” His attention stays on the wreckage of my attempts, but I catch the slight curl of his lips.

“To order in, obviously.”

He simply nods, and then, he’s in motion—grabbing a bowl and raiding the fridge for fresh vegetables. Then he jerks his chin at the kitchen table. “Go sit down.”

I plant my feet, arms crossed. “Why?”

“Because you’re dead on your feet from doing stunts with a madman,” he says as he washes up the vegetables, his voice a shade too casual. “Now is there anything you don’t eat?”

I hesitate. “Nuts.”

He freezes, then turns to face me with a predatory focus. “Anaphylaxis?”

“What’s that?”

Those green eyes pin me with sudden intensity, all traces of earlier amusement gone. The shift makes my stomach flip. “What happens to you when you eat nuts?”

“What, are you planning to slip them into my food?” I try for playful, but my voice wavers under his scrutiny.

“Answer me.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I get bloated, okay?” Of all my weaknesses to reveal to this man, this feels absurdly intimate.

“Noted.”

He turns back to the stove, flicking the pan onto the burner. “Sit down.”

I hoist myself onto the counter, the cool marble a shock against the thigh exposed by my torn skirt. “What are you making?”

His knife catches the light as he points it toward the kitchen table, the gesture somehow both threatening and elegant. “The chair’s over there.”

“Nah, I’m good here.” I swing my legs while studying the play of muscle under his shirt as he works. “Unless you think I’m distracting you?”

His hands continue their precise dance over the vegetables. “You’re not distracting me, princess. You’re in my way.”

I stay where I am, and he doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he focuses on his task, each slice of the knife making his forearm muscles flex and shift, veins trailing up his arms like rivers of steel.

The silence thickens, but Cade wears it like armor, sinking into it as if it’s his natural state. The longer it stretches, the more at ease he seems, even cracking his head side to side as if releasing tension, while I resist the urge to fidget and fill the quiet with mindless chatter.

And then it clicks. Cade actually enjoys this—making people squirm, having them grapple with the discomfort he thrives on. But why?

My stomach breaks the silence with another embarrassingly loud growl. Cade doesn’t even flinch; he just continues his rhythmic knife work, perfectly contained. Cool. Untouchable. Like a still pond.

A pond I’d like to ripple.

“Cade.” I let the single syllable roll off my tongue, drawing it out and deliberately relishing it.

His knife freezes mid-slice—just for a heartbeat, but that small hesitation feels like victory. Then he’s moving again, but there’s a new tension in his shoulders. With military precision, he slides perfectly uniform rings of vegetables into the pan. The sizzle fills the kitchen, along with an aroma that makes my mouth water with each ingredient and seasoning he adds.

I lean forward, letting my hair fall like a dark curtain, then lower my voice to a sultry whisper. “Watching you cook is like . . . art, you know? A sensual feast.”

His eyes flick to mine before turning back to the stove, but that brief contact burns with . . . a warning? An invitation?

And then he’s plating what looks like a magazine-worthy stir-fry, the vegetables gleaming, steam rising in an aromatic cloud that almost makes me moan with how good it smells.

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