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“Show-off,” I mutter, but my hand’s already reaching for the drawer beside my leg, hunting for a fork.

His fingers graze mine when he hands me the plate, and the contact sizzles up my arm like a live wire. I lift my gaze to him when he doesn’t immediately let go, finding that same granite expression but his eyes . . . God, his eyes burn emerald fire.

“Thank you, Cade,” I murmur.

He quirks those expressive eyebrows in a gesture that could mean anything from ‘you’re welcome’ to ‘fuck off’—the man could write a whole dictionary with his eyebrows alone—and drops his hand. The loss of contact leaves my fingers tingling and my skin hungry for more.

The first bite hits, and—oh holy hell.My eyes flutter shut, and this time I can’t stop the moan that escapes me. Flavors explode across my tongue like fireworks: garlic, ginger, something deeper and darker that makes my taste buds sing. I’m already chasing the next bite before I’ve finished the first.

“Cade, this is . . .” Words fail me, and that hardly ever happens.

He turns away, the muscles in his back a rigid wall between us, and he reaches into one of the cupboards for a bottle of scotch and a glass. The amber liquid catches the light as he pours, his movements precise and controlled.

The fact that he made this food specifically for me should send warmth blooming through my chest, but his pissy attitude freezes even that small pleasure to ice.

I force myself to stop chewing, swallow deliberately, and then say with poisonous sweetness, “You’re welcome. Thank you.”

He pauses with his glass halfway to those infuriating lips. “What?”

I shrug. “Oh, it’s nothing, Cade. Just mentally compiling a list of basic phrases you might want to add to your vocabulary. Like ‘please,’ ‘thankyou,’ ‘you’re welcome’—you know, those little words most humans learn before kindergarten?”

His lips curl into that knowing smirk—the one that says he’s three steps ahead in whatever game we’re playing—and leans back against the counter. “And what’s the proper etiquette when I kill a man for you, princess? Is there a Hallmark card for that?”

My breath catches as I recall those were my exact thoughts after I came down from the warehouse floor. He must have read it off my expression. I retort with an observation of my own. “You didn’t kill Hector for me, Cade.”

Those green eyes lock onto mine. The intensity there . . . it’s like gravity, pulling me in even as it warns me to stay away.

“You’re right,” he finally says, voice rough as crushed velvet. “That kill was for me.”

I blink, surprised at his easy admission. “That’s what you use the rosary for isn’t it, Cade?”

“Are you running a tab on how many times you say my name?” He pushes off the counter, apparently done sharing secrets, and starts cleaning up.

Maybe it’s better he doesn’t answer. Some demons are best left behind bars. I keep my tone playful and shrug. “Why, I like the way your name sounds. It’s strong and sexy. It suits you.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “You can’t flirt for shit, you know.”

“And you wouldn’t know a flirt if it crawled up your ass.” I shoot back, rewarded by the clench in his jaw.

Cade sets his glass down slowly, still holding my gaze. “Is that so?”

“Yep. Most men would kill to hear a woman moan their name.”

Heleans in, closing the distance between us until I can smell that intoxicating mix of leather and citrus. “I’d kill a dozen men to get you to shut up.”

My pulse hammers against my throat, but I force my tone to stay cool. “Exactly my point. You threatened to throw me into traffic just for daring to come all over you.”

He goes statue-still, every muscle locked, and triumph floods my veins like champagne.

Got you.

“Come all over your bike, I meant to say.” I correct myself with a deliberate smirk, watching heat flare in his eyes. “Wouldn’t dream of coming on you.” I lean forward, matching his invasion of my space, and whisper. “You’d lose your shit.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

“Why you’d lose your shit or why I wouldn’t dream of it?”

He takes a measured sip of his drink. “Take your pick.”