Chase
I’d woken up early.
It was the first time I’d done that in weeks.
Something about seeing the sunrise used to piss me off, maybe because she used to wake up early, too chipper for my liking, so I purposefully slept in so she’d roll in her grave.
But today felt… different.
The sun was bright against the snow. My darkness shuddered at all the light, and I cracked a smile as I started making breakfast.
The commission would be in three days.
I had three days until I knew the final decision.
Three days until I would be hunted.
Three. Days.
I cracked a few eggs and started making French toast. I wanted Luc to keep up her appetite, even though I had no clue how I was going to spend my time with her. I was rusty, and since I wouldn’t touch her without her permission, I was really at a loss.
What did I even used to do during the day, other than kill people?
My fuzzy brain tried to conjure up something, but all I had was watching movies with Trace and hanging out with…
My gut churned.
Brothers. My brothers.
The ones I’d shunned.
The ones who would hunt me like I was in the wrong, when they knew damn well that the De Lange line needed to be snuffed out like a light.
Hell, even Phoenix agreed with me, and he wasn’t even clinically sane!
The more I thought about it the angrier I became, until I felt a hand on my arm.
I looked up into Luc’s tawny brown eyes and fresh face. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a braid, and her face was free of makeup except for a touch of gloss on her lips that immediately drew me in. “I think you’ve beaten the eggs hard enough.”
“Yeah.” I set them down. “Want to help?”
She nodded shyly then reached for the sourdough bread, but not before glancing at me, tasting the batter, making a face, and adding a bit of cinnamon.
I burst out laughing. “You make me feel as though everyone’s always claimed I’m a good cook, but they were only trying to be nice.”
Her eyes widened. “Sorry!”
I took the cinnamon from her hands and licked the same finger she did. “Don’t be. You were right.”
She exhaled, her eyes darting between my mouth and chin. What the hell. I swept in for a kiss, surprised to find her eager in my arms as she made a little moan against my tongue.
This, this is what we could do for three days straight.
Even if it was just kissing.
I would take it.
Because it made me feel desired.
Alive.
I released her before I took her on the kitchen counter again then nodded to the stove. “Think you can handle this while I make coffee?”
She gave me a thumbs-up. “Got it.”
We moved silently around each other, her humming, me listening, my ears straining to hear more of her pretty voice. It was soothing, the music she hummed.
A few times I pretended to busy myself when really I was just standing there dumbstruck while she cooked.
Normally, I would take over. I didn’t trust other people in the kitchen.
But she looked so happy.
Like she belonged.
In this home.
More than I did.
And that was when I noticed it… I tilted my head and then gave it a shake. Something about her felt familiar. I squinted. Something was… the same as something else.
Her bottom lip?
Top?
She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and smiled down at the French toast.
Her ears. Is that what looked familiar? Or maybe it was just her entire profile?
I was losing my mind.
Probably from the high body count and lack of sleep. I poured us cups of coffee and went to sit.
Minutes later, I had a plate of French toast in front of me, but she had nothing in front of her.
“You don’t like French toast?” I asked, confused.
“Oh, I love it!” she exclaimed, grabbing the maple syrup and holding it up.
I nodded, still frowning, as she made a fucking design on my plate and then added a few sprinkles of powdered sugar around the edges.
I stared down at my plate.
Pissed.
Just pissed at the world.
Pissed at a dead wife who never really ate what I cooked her, much less shared breakfast with me.
My hands shook as I reached for my fork, only to put it back down again and cleared my throat.
Why did it always come back to my hate?
I couldn’t let go.
I wanted to.
I wanted to eat the damn French toast without tasting hate on my tongue.
I thought I gripped the fork again, but somehow it clattered out of my hand and onto the ground.
And then Luciana, with her wide, fear-filled eyes, was standing in front of me, fresh fork in hand. She slowly cut a piece for me and then held it in front of my mouth.
Feeding. Me.
A gesture you make to a toddler, and I was ready to fall to my knees and sob. To confess it all and beg her to make it stop.
Make it fucking stop.
“Open.” Her voice shook.
She was just as petrified as I was.
She, afraid of me.
Me, afraid of her.
I was sick with it.
The fear, the hate, the longing.
I bit down on the fork and tasted the goodness, the sweetness of her gesture and the meaning behind it.
“I hope I didn’t do something…” She gulped. “…wrong.”
“Sometimes,” my voice rasped, “people have stronger reactions to something done right.”
She licked her lips.
I pulled her into my lap. Her legs dangled on either side of me, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was starving.
I didn’t care that I told her I wouldn’t touch her.
I didn’t care that I was full of hate.
Anger.
I didn’t care about anything but showing my appreciation.
Showing her the thank you I’d always wanted to show, but never had a chance to.
I kissed her mouth, took it in mine and savored her taste, and then pressed my head to her chest. “Thank you for making breakfast.”
It sounded so stupid, saying it out loud.
“Chase?” Her voice sounded afraid.
“Yeah.” I didn’t move.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Maybe.”
My body shook a bit as she ran her hands down my tense shoulders and then turned my face to hers. “When was the last time someone took care of you?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I had none.
Because the answer was never.
Because the answer was pathetic.
She nodded. Like she knew my silence was all she would get, and she was okay with it. And then she reached for the fork and fed me again.