Page 86 of Cruel Deception
Panic surged through me.
I slapped the iPad shut, turned on my heel, and rushed to the bathroom.
Water ran. I stripped quickly, washing the aftermath of last night from my skin. But my mind was still spinning.
Would he know?
Cassian wasn’t just smart. He was obsessive. Cautious. Paranoid. A man like that could probably smell when someone touched his tech.
By the time I stepped out, dressed and freshly lotioned, the iPad was gone.
So was he.
I sighed and left the room.
I found him in the kitchen.
He was plating food. Two servings.
I blinked.
“You cooked?” I asked, my voice catching slightly.
“Yeah,” he replied, flatly.
It wasn’t the answer—it was the image. Cassian Moretti in a kitchen. Wooden spoon in hand. Muscles flexing beneath a fitted black shirt. A contradiction to everything I thought he was.
I walked forward and reached for the tray. If he’d cooked, the least I could do was carry it.
But he wordlessly took his plate and walked out.
I carried mine, following. He sat at the far end of the long dining table, like always. Silent. Watching.
We are opposite each other, a line of tension stringing between us.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For... last night. For making it comfortable.”
He didn’t respond at first, just took a bite.
“You like the food?” he finally asked.
I glanced down, tasted it—and stilled.
Rich flavors hit my tongue instantly. Savory, well-seasoned, tender. Each bite melted like butter. It was the kind of meal that warmed you from the inside, like someone had poured care into every stir.
“It’s... really good,” I said, a little stunned. “Delicious, actually.”
He nodded once.
“Most men like you don’t cook. You could just hire someone.”
“I’m not most men.”
No kidding.
I paused, chewing, then decided to take a risk. “Is something wrong?”
He didn’t look up.
