Page 28 of Fallen Empire

No. This look was different.

Raw.

Hungry.

But not for food.

There was something wild behind his eyes. Like he’d been caged too long and just found the door unlocked. Like he wasn’t just looking at me—he wanted me. Wanted something he’d been craving.

And that look? It made heat crawl up my spine and settle low in my stomach.

He wasn’t looking at me like a friend.

He was looking at me like a man who’d been starving.

And the worst part was... I wanted to be the thing that fed him.

My stomach tightened, unsure if it was the scent of garlic still lingering in the air or the way his gaze slid down my skin like a man desperate to commit every inch to memory. I stood there frozen, towel clutched tighter than necessary, heat crawling up my throat as something unspoken passed between us.

Then I blinked.

And reality snapped back into place like a rubber band to the wrist.

Towel.

I was still in my towel.

My throat closed, heart stuttering as I gripped the edge a little tighter. “I’ll, uh… I’ll be right back,” I managed, backing out of the kitchen like I wasn’t just seconds away from combusting.

I darted down the hall to the bedroom.

To get distance. To swallow air. To catch my breath.

And to put on some damned clothes.

When I came back out, the scent had only grown stronger. Rich, creamy, intoxicating.

I didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

My eyes stayed glued to the plate in front of me like it held all the answers I didn’t want to face.

“What’d you order?” I asked, playing it off like my heart wasn’t still hammering in my ribs.

“Your favorite,” he said without missing a beat. “Chicken Alfredo.”

I swallowed. “Did you get—”

Before I could finish, he slid a plate across the counter toward me.

Garlic bread.

Of course.

Everyone had a food weakness. Mine was garlic bread.

And it didn’t escape me that he knew that. The same way he always knew when to step in. When to hold back. When to bring silence instead of words.