Page 88 of Her Name in Red
I perch on one of the barstools at the counter, watching as he rummages through my refrigerator. He emerges with eggs, a slightly wilted pepper, and a block of cheese that I don't remember buying.
“Omelet it is,” he declares, grabbing a knife from the drawer.
There's something hypnotic about watching him cook. He cracks eggs with one hand, whisks them with a fork, and dices the pepper with swift, sure strokes.
“Where'd you learn to cook?” I ask, resting my chin on my palm. I’ve been curious about it but pancake night definitely was not the time to ask.
“My mom and aunt worked nights,” he says, not looking up from the cutting board. “Our dads weren’t around. Someone had to feed my cousins.”
I watch his hands as he pours the eggs into the sizzling pan. Steady hands. Killer's hands now. Because of me.
Maybe I should feel guilty for that. For dragging him into this life, this darkness. For showing him how easy it is to take a life,to play god. For turning him into the kind of monster people whisper about. The kind they fear.
But I don't.
The truth sits in my chest like a stone: I don't feel bad at all.
There's something perfect about him standing in my kitchen after washing blood off his skin. Something felt right about the way he moved tonight, as if he was born for this. Born for me.
His eyes meet mine over the sizzle of eggs, and I know he understands. A slow smile spreads across his face, dangerous and thrilling.
The omelet slides perfectly onto a plate. He repeats the process for the second one, then carries both to the island. Sliding one in front of me, he takes the seat beside me rather than across. Our knees touch under the counter.
“Eat,” he says, picking up his fork.
I cut into the fluffy eggs. Steam rises from the perfectly cooked omelet, cheese stretching in gooey strings. The first bite is heaven, and I realize how hungry I actually am.
“Good?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
I nod, mouth full. We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds are our forks against the plates and the occasional appreciative noise from my throat.
“You know what's fucked up?” I say finally, pushing a piece of pepper around my plate.
“What's that?”
“This is the most normal I've felt in years.” I gesture between us with my fork. “Sitting here. Eating breakfast for dinner with someone. After what we just did.”
He chews thoughtfully, considering this. “Maybe it's because you're not pretending anymore.” His eyes when they meet mine are clear and knowing. “You're not wearing a mask with me.”
“And that doesn't terrify you?”
“Would I be here if it did?”
I take another bite, letting the question hang between us. “Most people would run screaming from what we are.”
“I'm not most people.” He leans closer, his voice dropping. “And neither are you.”
His hand finds my thigh under the counter, warm and possessive. Not demanding, just...there. Connected.
The truth is, I recognize something in Riggs that was there long before he met me. A capacity for violence that's been waiting for permission to surface. I didn't create the darkness in him; I just gave it a place to breathe.
Almost as if he can tell I’ve got a million thoughts running through my head, and all of them revolve around him. He voices something to assuage any lingering guilt I may have.
“You didn't make me do anything I didn't want to do,” he says quietly, like he's reading my thoughts. “You know that, right?”
I shrug. “Maybe. But normal people don't want to do the things we do.”
“Who the fuck wants to be normal?” He takes another bite. “Besides, I was never going to be one of the good guys. Not really.”
