Page 110

I hate how that lands in me. Soft. Undeniably real.

I look at him fully now, leaning just enough to let my mouth twist into something between a smirk and a dare. “Fine. But if they don’t come out perfect, I’m blaming you. And I want extra glaze this time.”

He chuckles. “Noted.”

I let the silence stretch between us, just for a second longer than comfort allows, then move past him and back into the kitchen proper. My skin prickles with awareness of his proximity. But I don’t flinch when he brushes against me after he follows me. I don’t pull away.

I pull my hair up into a lazy knot as Rule moves around the kitchen like he’s done it a hundred times. Efficient. Confident. Silent when he needs to be, and deliberate when he doesn’t. It’s unnerving how domestic it looks on him. Like the same hands that tied me to a bed, that chased me through the forest like prey, could also know exactly where to find the vanilla extract and the right size mixing bowl.

I hop up onto the edge of the counter, watching him prep ingredients. “So,” I say, voice casual as I dangle my legs off the edge, “this your new plan? Seduce me with carbs?”

He pauses just long enough to glance at me—head cocked, expression unreadable beneath the mask. “You moaned last time I gave you these. Figured I’d play to your weaknesses.”

“That was appreciation,” I say, lifting my chin. “Not seduction. There’s a difference.”

“Mm.” He slides the cream cheese onto the counter, the sound of foil crinkling under his gloved fingers. “Sounded a lot like foreplay to me.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re just pissed I licked the last of it off my fingers and didn’t offer you a taste.”

“Not pissed,” he replies smoothly. “Impressed you managed to make pastries obscene without even trying.”

I grin. “I’m talented like that.”

He nudges a cutting board toward me, along with a knife that gleams under the kitchen light like a dare. “Want to chop the cherries or just keep staring at me like you’re plotting something?”

I slide off the counter with exaggerated grace and grab the blade, running my finger along the flat edge before giving him a slow, arched look. “Wow. Trusting me with a knife already? I’m touched.”

His stance doesn’t shift, but I can tell I’ve caught his attention. The tilt of his head, the way his gloved hands pause just slightly above the bowl of sugar. He’s waiting.

I smirk, lifting the blade and turning it slightly so it glints. “You sure you want to be that close? I’m unpredictable. Unstable. Probably holding a grudge or two.”

“Only two?” he murmurs, voice edged in amusement.

“For now,” I say sweetly. “But you’re really underestimating the damage a serrated edge can do.”

He finally steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of him, the weight of him—not threatening, just inevitable.

“If I thought you’d try to stab me,” he says, calm and matter-of-fact, “I wouldn’t have given you a knife.”

I raise my brow. “So what—youwantme armed?”

His voice dips lower, the kind of low that knows exactly where to settle in your chest. “I want you exactly like this. Sharp. Dangerous. Honest.”

The last word lands heavy, harder than it should.

I blink, just once. Then I shake my head, huffing out a dry laugh as I slice the first cherry clean in half. “You’re either incredibly confident or profoundly stupid.”

“Both,” he replies, going back to his preparations. “Depending on the day.”

“Today’s looking like a stupid day,” I mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it.

I keep chopping, the blade rhythmic against the board. He doesn't flinch. He doesn’t watch my hands. He just moves beside me like he trusts that I won’t drive the knife straight into his ribs.

That, more than anything, unsettles me.

Because part of me wishes hewouldn’ttrust me.

And part of me... doesn’t hate that he does.