Page 66 of Captive Audience

Asha rolled her eyes but followed me to the kitchen, where I directed her to sit at a barstool behind the island. I pulled out two of the chef-prepared meals stocked in my refrigerator for when I was too tired to cook.

I read the labels. “Herb-crusted rack of lamb with parsnip puree and glazed baby carrots, or grilled salmon with lemon-basil butter, roasted potatoes, and charred asparagus?”

“Those sound great, but would you mind grabbing the take-out bag on the middle shelf? I’ll have leftover Chinese from lunch. There’s plenty for you, too, if you want to share.”

I froze. “I’ll pass.”

The thought of even touching the bag made my gut churn. I knew the smell would hit me the second I peeled it open—sweet soy, greasy sesame—and I’d be back there. Belfast. A shitty plastic chair in a red-lantern dive, chopsticks in one hand and my phone clenched in the other while Aidan delivered news that shattered my world. I couldn’t do it. Not tonight.

“Can you plate your own?” I asked. “I’ll heat mine up after.”

“Sure.” She rose from her seat and grabbed the containers from the fridge, scooped portions onto a plate, then popped it into the convection microwave.

While it reheated, I moved to the buffet unit that housed my whiskeys and grabbed the closest one. I needed it tonight.

“Drink?” I held up a cut-crystal tumbler.

“I’ll just have water.” She grabbed a cold bottle from the refrigerator.

I poured myself a Glenmorangie. “Slainte,” I said before I downed it in one gulp. I brought the decanter with me to the kitchen and poured myself another. It disappeared asfast as the first.

“Rough day?”

“Something like that.”

Knowing that the bastard who’d had Niall killed was still breathing made me look at the world differently. Every person I passed on the street could be the one we searched for. I kept racking my brain—who was the Soul Collector? Someone Niall had crossed? A rival?

Christ, it could even be one of the Beasts.

The thought sickened me, but we couldn’t rule out any possibilities.

Then there’d been the tense phone call from Torin after he’d found out how I’d gotten Asha to work for us. The wordslapse of judgmentandterrible opticswere thrown around, but when he ended the call withDon’t fuck this up, I figured that was as close to a blessing as I’d ever get.

Asha’s eyes darted to the scrapes on my knuckles. I’d taken my frustrations out on a guy in my crew who’d been five minutes late and another who’d told me to calm down. I really needed to hit Aidan’s gym to blow off some steam. My cousin would understand, and he was one of the few people who could put me on my arse if I sparred too aggressively.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Asha asked.

I arched a brow. “Aren’t you being the good wife?”

“I’m being a good human being. You should try it sometime.”

And that was the kicker. Ashawasa good person. She’d dedicated her life to solving the unsolvable, the forgotten cases that’d been thrown in the too-hard basket by the cops. She sought to bring peace to families who were living their worst nightmare and to take down the monsters who’d caused that pain.

Monsters who weren’t so different from me.

I took two sets of cutlery from the kitchen drawer and laid them on the counter. “I don’t want to talk about my day, but I’d like to hear about yours.”

When the microwave chimed, I took Asha’s dinner out and placed it in front of her, working hard not to gag at the smell.

I must’ve made a face, because Asha eyed me strangely. “What is it? You don’t like Chinese food?”

“It’s not that. It’s just…I can’t eat it.”

One side of her mouth tilted up. “Tough guy got a sensitive stomach?”

I pressed my lips together but didn’t answer. Instead, I turned to put my meal in the microwave, not sure if I even had an appetite anymore.

“What’s wrong with my food, Rook?” Her tone turned serious.