Page 65 of Daggermouth

“You?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “The Executioner knows how to cook?”

“The Executioner has a name,” he replied, pushing the vegetables into the sink and turning on the water. “And yes, I cook.”

The admission surprised her. She took another sip of vodka, let it burn away the questions that wanted to follow. He reached for something on the counter—a small tablet—and pressed a button. Music filled the kitchen, nothing like the thundering bass from the clubs in the Boundary. This was something instrumental, complex, a blend of sound that seemed to wrap around the space.

Then he rolled up his sleeves

The movement shouldn’t have caught her attention, but the vodka made her notice things she usually wouldn’t. The fabric folded back to reveal forearms that were . . . She took another drink. They were just arms. Nothing special about the subtle flex of muscle under skin as he reached for a knife.

The domesticity of the scene was so at odds with everything she knew about him that for a second she wondered if she was dreaming as he began to cut the vegetables.

The knife moved through the items with ease, reducing them to uniform pieces. He had surgeon’s hands, she thought hazily. Killer’s hands. She’d seen those hands sign death warrants, had imagined them covered in blood. But watching them work now, she could almost forget what they had done. How many necks they’d snapped. How many triggers they’d pulled. Now they were almost gentle, careful, creating instead of destroying.

She found herself watching his fingers—long and elegant, yet powerful—as they guided the blade.

“Where did you learn to cook?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

He paused, knife hovering above a red pepper. “My mother taught me the basics. The rest I learned on my own. I find it . . . cathartic.”

“Your mother?” The concept seemed absurd—the Executioner as a child, standing at his mother’s side, learning something as ordinary as cooking.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I wasn’t born with a gun in my hand.” There was a hint of something like amusement in his voice. “I had a childhood. Of sorts.”

She didn’t answer, instead took another slow sip from her glass as she watched him, the alcohol softening the edges of her perception. Her eyes traced the line of his jaw below the mask, the way it flexed as he concentrated.

The muscles in his back moved beneath his shirt as he worked, and she found herself tracking the movement with unconscious interest. His movements were graceful, controlled, a body trained for violence. He was built like a fighter—not bulky, but carved from consistent training. She wondered what kind of training produced a body like that. What kind of pain he’d endured to earn those muscles.

A traitorous part of her mind whispered that he was beautiful, in the way that dangerous things often are—a predator in motion, a storm rolling in, a blade catching the light. She crushed the thought immediately.

Sure, he was objectively attractive, if you liked the tall, brooding, homicidal type. Which she didn’t. Obviously.

This was the man who executed citizens for petty crimes. The man who stood on that platform day after day, ending lives with noemotion. The embodiment of everything she’d spent her life fighting against.

And yet, she couldn’t look away from his hands.

The smell that began filling the kitchen was nothing like her failed attempt. Rich and heavy, layers of flavor she couldn’t identify. Her stomach cramped.

“What are you making?” she asked, needing something to redirect her thoughts.

“Pasta,” he answered, scraping the chopped vegetables into a pan. “Simple but filling. And hard to burn,” he added, the ghost of mockery in his tone.

She should have been offended, should have snapped back with something caustic. Instead, she found herself watching as he added seasoning and adjusted the heat with a confidence she envied.

Her mind drifted to more questions, wondering about the life he lived that she didn’t know. He’d been gone all day. After threatening her this morning, after wrapping his hands around her throat, he’d disappeared.

Shadera lifted her fingers to her neck at the memory, the skin where he had touched tingling.

“Where were you today?” Another question fleeing her lips without permission.

He didn’t look up from the pan. “Does it matter?”

“You threatened to kill me this morning.” She took another sip from the crystal glass. “Then left me locked in here.”

“I needed space.” Simple, honest.

“From me?”

“From the temptation to follow through on the threat.”