Page 57 of Reaper
And now I want that… and I want it all with a maddening criminal who I once thought killed my little sister.
I storm into the kitchen, throw a couple heaping scoops of ground coffee into the coffeemaker, flip on the coffeemaker, and watch every single drop drip into the pot, inky black, while my mind re-enacts scenes and sensations in the rising coffee pot steam of the two of us fucking and just how good it felt to let him in, even just a little.
Fuck, what the fuck am I doing?
I have to focus on the mission. On Volkov. Not on… whatever it is I feel for Reaper.
I can’t really be falling for him, can I?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Reaper
She leaves me standing in the shower, alone with just my thoughts and the sound of running water. Lost in my thoughts is not where I want to be — not right now. Not after I feel like maybe I might have a second chance at life with Adriana.
Like maybe I can move on.
I slip out of the shower, wrap a towel around myself, hardly drying off and leaving a trail of droplets on the floor as I head into the kitchen and find Adriana glaring at the coffeemaker. She must feel it, too; this feeling that we’re either doing something right, or something so wrong that it’ll end with pain and suffering for us both.
She doesn’t look up from the coffee maker when I get into the kitchen; she just keeps staring at it like it’s the heat of her gaze that’s making the coffee steam and not the damn machine.
“Is that the same look you’d give the criminals you go after? Did they start steaming, too?”
She looks up, rolls her eyes at me, and from the heat that crosses my skin, the only answer can be — yes. “I just want some coffee, and this damn machine is so fucking slow. After what you and I… after what we did, I need to get focused. I need to wake up. Because it’s going to take a lot of work to figure out how to take care of Ruslan Volkov and save your damn life so that maybe we can work out how… how we…”
She trails off.
I know where she’s going: us. How to figure out ‘us.’ Even a guy like me, with my history of unintelligent behavior — including drinking antifreeze, apparently — can suss that one out. I want that, too — I want an ‘us.’ Even if it’s an ‘us’ that might be based on a lie, I want a second chance if it’s with her. Guilt, shame, and desire burn through me in equal amounts, and I clench and unclench my hands. These feelings and these wants are so new, so raw, that I know I can’t say them out loud to her — it’d only scare her away. I can see in her eyes she’s struggling with the same thing: is this really real?
But I can’t just stand here, clenching my hands like I’m still figuring out how my appendages work.
I have to do something.
I grab the coffeepot from under the drip, even though it's not done brewing, and pour her a mug. "Here. Take this and go sit down. I'll handle breakfast."
She looks at me as if I’ve just told her I'm planning to juggle flaming chainsaws. "You cook?"
"Among other talents you haven't discovered yet." I nudge her toward the small dining table. "Go. Sit. Drink your coffee and let me take care of something for once."
“Take care of something? You’re taking like I need someone to take care of me—”
I hold up a finger, which escalates the intensity of her stare. Normally, it’d be enough to shut me up, but I’m determined to do something, and she clearly looks like she needs someone to take care of her, or else her head will explode trying to figure out what the fuck is really going on between us. Is it just fucking? Is it something more?
“Don’t start. Just sit, drink coffee, and fucking wait.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I'm already moving, pulling open cabinets and checking what's available. Flour, butter, eggs — enough to work with. My hands know what to dobefore my brain catches up, muscle memory kicking in from all those early mornings in Tank's kitchen when I was still trying to figure out how to be human again after getting clean.
"You learn a lot of unexpected shit when you're trying to stay sober," I call over my shoulder, already measuring flour by feel. "Tank — one of the guys from the club — used to be a baker. Well, he was and still is a baker. Says working with dough is one of the few times in life where he really feels peace. Can’t say I disagree with him. It sure as fuck helped me."
The familiar rhythm of mixing, kneading, shaping settles something jagged in my chest. This is something I can control, something I can make right. I can't fix what we're walking into with Volkov, can't promise either of us will make it out alive, but I can make her breakfast. I can give her this small thing.
I work quickly, my hands moving through the motions Tank drilled into me until they became second nature — croissant dough, rolled and folded with precision, and danish pastry, delicate and buttery. The scent of baking fills the kitchen, and for the first time since I woke up and realized the emotional minefield Adriana and I are walking through with our fucking eyes closed, my shoulders aren't locked with tension.
When I turn around with the tray, Adriana's staring at me like I've grown a second head. The croissants are golden and flaky; the strawberry and cream cheese danishes are glazed to perfection.
"What the hell?" she says. “What the fuck did you just do?”
I set the tray in front of her, trying not to let her see how much I need her to like this, how much I need to be good at something that doesn't involve violence or destruction. "Try one."
