Page 23 of Villain's Prey

“You disagree?”

“I didn’t say that.” I lean forward on my elbows.

“Good.” She flips on the burner and puts some butter in the pan, her back to me. “I’m glad you agree.”

She’s something else.

“Anyway, as I was saying, my family can be a mess. Vincent is obsessed with guns and being tough and all that macho bullshit. Leon is obsessed with his hair and his clothes. Gina”—she waves a spatula—“she’s actually wonderful. She’ll be a great mother. Kindhearted to a fault. She listens. Always listens. No matter what nonsense comes out of Vincent’s or Leon’s mouths, she listens. She’s …” She shrugs. “Actually, she’s the perfect one if I’m being honest.”

I ease up behind her, unable to sit and watch anymore. When I touch her waist, she jumps.

“Keep going.” I press my lips to her ear.

“You think you’re getting intel, hmm?” She drops a piece of bread into an egg mixture she has in one of the plates. “That I’m going to give you all the dirt?”

“I can make it even, if you like.”

“How?” She flips the bread, soaking it on each side.

“Sal still sleeps with a blankie.”

She turns her head. “Are you serious?”

“Yep.” I kiss the corner of her mouth. “It’s barely a piece of fabric anymore. Just a tatty bit of blue cloth, but he keeps it under his pillow. If Dad found out—” I sigh, the shadow of my father falling over me. I can’t escape him, even now. Which is an odd thought. I’ve never wanted toescapehim. Hell, for a lot of my life, I wanted tobehim.

“What?” She turns, her big eyes holding so much. “What’s wrong?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. But something’s different. Ever since …” I glance at her lips.

She nods slowly. “I know.”

“You feel it too?” I put my heart in that question, my entire soul wrapping around the question mark like a snake.

“Yes.” She doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. “I feel it.” She sighs. “But it doesn’t make sense. I met you yesterday. Not to mention the fact that youkidnappedme. I shouldn’t feel …” She rolls her eyes. “I shouldn’t feel anything except hate for you. I should be hitting you with this pan, not cooking for you. I’m being stupid.Thisis stupid.”

“No.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. “You’re perfect, remember?”

She smiles at that. “Yes. It’s a burden, really.”

I smirk. “But you carry it so well.”

She presses her forehead to my chest. “This is a mess. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” I kiss her crown. “It’s … not what I expected.You’renot what I expected.”

“You’re not what I expected either,” she says softly.

I should tell her that I’m exactly who she expected–a Taletti out for blood, a man with no remorse, a killer. But I can’t. Not when she looks at me with trust in her beautiful eyes. I can’t tell her any of that.

“I should—” She swallows hard and turns. “I don’t want the butter to burn.”

She drops the wet bread into the hot pan. The scent of cinnamon and sugar fills the air as the food sizzles.

“French toast?” I ask.

“Yes.” She puts another piece of bread into the egg mix. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.” I wrap my arms around her waist and bend down to rest my chin on her shoulder. Why does it feel so natural? As if we’ve been doing this for years. It feels comfortable.

---