Page 28

The truth burns in my chest. I've treated her like a weakness to purge rather than a woman deserving of basic dignity. My rigid control has become its own form of cruelty.

“You're right.” The admission costs me, but I force it out. “I've handled this poorly. All of it.”

Surprise flickers across her features before she schools her expression. She sets down her fork with deliberate care. “And what exactly is 'this,' Erik?”

“I don't know.” The words scrape my throat raw. My fingers drum against the table's edge. “This is... new territory. You drive me crazy in ways I can't—” I drag a hand through my hair. “Every time I'm near you, my control slips. I can't think straight.”

The hard line of her mouth softens. She twirls pasta around her fork, studying me. “Must be difficult for someone like you. Always in control.”

“You have no idea.”

A ghost of her earlier smile touches her lips. She glances at her plate, then back at me. “I made too much. Would you like to share?”

My chest constricts. The offer dangles between us—simple yet loaded with implications. Sharing a meal means letting down barriers and becoming more than captor and captive. Everything in my training emphasizes the importance of maintaining distance.

But the pull toward her proves stronger than years of discipline. “Thank you. That would be nice.”

I stand, hyper-aware of her eyes following me as I grab a clean plate from the cabinet. The ceramic feels cool against my palms while I spoon a portion of her pasta onto it. Steam rises from the noodles, carrying the scent of garlic and herbs.

“This looks good.” I settle back into my chair, closer than before.

“It's just pasta.” But her cheeks flush at the compliment.

The first bite confirms my words—she knows her way around a kitchen. We eat in silence, but it's different now. Less hostile. More intimate.

I'm crossing lines I never should. But watching her twirl pasta around her fork, guard slightly lowered, I can't bring myself to care.

The pasta settles warm in my stomach as I watch her methodically clean her plate. The question burns on my tongue before I can stop it. “What do you do? When you're not working?”

Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth. Those green eyes study me like I've spoken in tongues. “I... work.” She sets the utensil down. “The tech industry doesn't exactly leave much room for hobbies.”

“No downtime at all?”

“My work is my downtime.” A small smile plays on her lips. “I love what I do. Creating new security protocols and finding vulnerabilities before others can exploit them. It's like solving puzzles but with real stakes.”

I nod, understanding, hitting deeper than expected. How many times have my brothers asked similar questions? What do you do for fun, Erik? When do you relax?

“You sound passionate about it.”

“I am.” She pushes her plate aside, leaning forward. “Most people think cybersecurity is just firewalls and passwords. It's so much more. It's anticipating human behavior, predicting how someone might try to breach your defenses.” Her eyes light up as she speaks, hands moving to emphasize her points. “Kind of like what you do, actually. Just digital.”

The comparison startles a laugh from me. “Never thought of it that way.”

“Let me guess, your work is your life, too?” There's no judgment in her tone, just recognition.

“Hard to separate myself from it.” I run a finger along the edge of my plate. “When your skills mean life or death...”

“You can't just clock out at five,” she finishes.

Our eyes meet across the table, understanding passing between us. We're more alike than I'd care to admit. Both of us are shaped by our responsibilities, both finding purpose in protecting what's ours. Different methods, the same drive.

“Though I do read sometimes,” she adds softly.

“What do you read?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

“Everything. Fiction mostly.” Katarina traces the rim of her water glass. “Romance, fantasy—anything that helps quiet my mind when I can't sleep.”

“You have trouble sleeping?” My fingers twitch with the urge to reach across the table.