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“Same.” I chuckle, absentmindedly scratching at a scar on my arm. “I can’t even boil water, but I’d kill for some home-cooked food.”

“Then let’s do that.” He strides over, determination etched into every line of his body. “I’ll cook tonight.”

“Really?” Surprise flickers through me like a candle flame caught in a draft.

“Really.”

The kitchen becomes our new battleground, with him manning the grill like he’s used to handling weapons instead of kitchen utensils. The sizzle and pop of chicken on the grill is white noise, a backdrop to the clink of cutlery and the dull thud of my heart against my ribs.

We sit at the table, plates of grilled chicken and salad between us. It’s simple, yet there’s pride in how he watches me take the first bite, like he’s laid his soul bare on this plate and waits for my verdict.

“Good?” he probes, a hint of vulnerability in those impenetrable eyes.

“Damn good,” I reply, meaning it, and his smile is all sharp edges and shadows.

“Tell me something…” I start, pushing lettuce around with my fork, “… where are you from?”

“Sydney.” His answer is clipped, the word slicing through the air.

“Family?” I prod, knowing I’m walking a razor wire without a net.

“Dead.” The syllable drops like a stone in deep water.

“How?” I can’t stop now, the questions bubbling up from a place I can’t quite name.

“Father killed my mother. Tried to off me, too,” he says, matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather as he points to the scar on his neck.

“Shit,” I breathe out, the taste of the salad turning bitter.

“Twelve months later, I found him. Slit his throat.” He speaks with an eerie calmness, eyes locked on mine, challenging me to look away.

“Jesus.” I stab at the chicken, trying to match his nonchalance. “You make it sound so…”

“Simple?” he offers, a predator’s grin spreading across his face. “It was.”

“Is that how… you know…” I trail off, unsure how to ask if that’s what got him into the assassination game.

“Found my calling?” He leans back, arms crossed, tattoos shifting with the movement. “Something like that.”

My heart hammers against my ribcage. I can’t tear my eyes away from his. There’s a stillness to him, a quiet certainty that chills me to the bone. But I’m not afraid. No, it’s something else—recognition.

“Shit,” I mutter, setting down my utensils. My appetite’s gone, replaced by a gnawing curiosity. “That’s… one hell of a coping mechanism.”

“Survival,” he corrects me, his lips twitching into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s all about survival, darling.”

“Survival,” I echo, leaning back in my chair. My mind races, piecing together the puzzle that is Felix Greyson. Hisdarkness is like a mirror to mine—twisted reflections in a shattered glass.

“Thought you’d be scared,” he says, almost sounding disappointed.

“Scared?” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “Of what? That you’re a killer? I’ve accepted that part.”

He studies me, and I feel like he’s peeling back layers with just his gaze. “You’ve got your ghosts, don’t you, Aurora?”

“More than you know,” I admit

“Tell me,” he insists, and there’s a hunger in his voice that matches the thirst for violence I see in him.

“Another time.” I stand up, my legs steady despite the turmoil inside. “Right now, I need a drink.”