Page 31 of Surrender to Me
I force myself to look away.
A lethal, threatening Stryker, I know what to do with. One who is human and sympathetic? That’s far, far more dangerous.
“Everyone deserves to get away. To relax.”
“Says the man who probably hasn’t taken a vacation in years.”
“Touché.” He lifts his bottle of water in a mock toast. “To workaholics with trust issues.”
I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. The sound surprises me—light and genuine in a way I haven’t been in so long. “That’s us.”
We work in comfortable silence after that, moving around each other in the small kitchen. When I reach for plates, he’s there to hand them down from the high shelf. When he needs the salt, I pass it without being asked. It’s…easy. Natural in a way that should scare me but doesn’t.
The confined space forces us to navigate around each other, and each accidental brush of his arm against mine, each time his hand steadies me when I reach for something, builds the tension between us. I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. The way his gaze follows the movement of my hands, lingers on my mouth when I taste the sauce.
I’m hyperaware of everything about him. The way he rolls up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms marked with faded scars. The concentration on his face as he slices bread. The quiet hum he makes when he tastes the wine.
“Tell me about the scars,” I say before I can stop myself, nodding toward his forearms.
He goes still, and I immediately regret the question. But then he looks down at his arms, at the thin white lines that crisscross his skin.
“Occupational hazards.” His voice is carefully neutral. “You learn to live with them.”
“They hurt, don’t they? At the time.”
“Yeah.” He meets my eyes. “Some things leave much deeper marks. And the pain of those never fades.”
In the moment, I see flashes of us being kindred spirits.
I want to ask questions, understand this man who’s turned my world upside down. But I don’t have the right. Not when I’m lying to him about everything that matters.
Besides, I don’t dare risk knowing more about him.
Having no emotional attachments makes leaving much easier.
The timer for the pasta chimes, saving us both from the heavy moment. I drain it while he finishes the sauce, and soon we’re sitting at the small wooden table with steaming plates between us.
The food is simple but good. Better than good, actually. There’s something about cooking together, sharing this domestic moment, that makes everything taste better.
“This is nice,” he says after a few bites.
“The food?”
“The company.” His eyes find mine across the table. “When’s the last time you had dinner with someone? Really had dinner, not just grabbed something quick.”
The question catches me off guard. It’s been a couple of years, at least.
My life hasn’t allowed me to have friendships. As a kid, I was bounced from country to country, school to school.
I’ve never even had a real job. Never had the chance to form meaningful friendships.
For a while, Dad and I settled in Brooklyn, back when I was still Lyra.
I met a couple of men at coffee shops, even dated a little.
But then things became hot after yet another of his jobs.
“Allie?”
