Page 64 of Peak Cruelty

I eat like it means everything.

The eggs are overdone, the toast too polite—cut diagonally, as though it’s posing for a lifestyle blog no one reads.I’d call it domestic if it didn’t feel staged, a rehearsal for a scene neither of us believes in.

The coffee is strong.Bitter.No cream.No sugar.

Perfect.

He watches me the way men watch oceans.Not because they’re beautiful, but because they’ve swallowed things whole.

“You always this quiet after a felony?”I ask.

He glances at the paper towel beneath his plate, as if searching for the right answer was something you could mop up.“Depends who I’m eating with.”

“Must be a short list.”

He shrugs.

We sit in it—whatever this is.Breakfast.Aftermath.A temporary ceasefire.The only sound is the scrape of a fork against ceramic and the soft click of his thumbnail tapping the edge of his mug like a countdown.

Eventually, he speaks.“We should talk about logistics.”

“A postmortem at breakfast?”I gulp my coffee down, drink it too fast.Let it burn.“Sexy.”

He doesn’t smile, but the edge of him softens.Barely.“We can’t stay here forever.”

“Why not?”I tilt my head.“The linens are nice.The plumbing’s aggressive.If this is a honeymoon, the room service sucks, but the company’s improving.”

That gets him.A half-smile.Crooked.Human.

He doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

I lean back in my chair, toes curling against the tile.“So—what?You’re just going to send me packing with a t-shirt and some trauma?”

He looks at me like he wants to say something honest.Then thinks better of it.

I file that away.Every deflection is a breadcrumb.And I’ve gotten very good at tracking predators on their own terrain.

We clean up together, silently.No more questions.No idle chatter.Just soap, water, and mutual wariness.At one point, his hand brushes mine.I don’t move.

The air changes quickly.

When I bend to place the mug in the rack, I feel him behind me.Close.Still not touching.

I straighten.Just enough to let my hips meet his.

He doesn’t speak.Doesn’t have to.

His grip lands at my waist.Not gentle.Not asking.He turns me hard—back against the counter—and his mouth finds mine like he’s been holding that breath for days.

I claw at the hem of his shirt, drag it up, over.He pulls mine halfway, doesn’t bother with the rest.My bra’s pushed aside, not removed.His mouth closes over one nipple—rough, fast, wet—and I gasp, but it only spurs him on.

Then the floor.

He drops me as though that was always the plan.Cold tile against my spine.My underwear shredded, he tears the last scrap of cotton from between my legs like he’s tired of pretending it matters.

His belt unfastened, pants half-lowered.He doesn’t ask.Doesn’t wait.Justdrivesin.

The stretch is brutal.

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