Page 14 of Kill for a Kiss

“Of course it is, darling.” Her tone is firm. “Now, eat.”

I obey with ease, picking up my fork, then pressing into the edge of a honey cake close to me, feeling its soft crumble before bringing it to my lips. The taste blooms over my tongue, sweet and delicate. But beneath the honeyed richness, faint bitterness lingers.

I swallow carefully, glancing down at the other baked goods. Next, I try the biscuit, which has the same taste too. Subtle, just enough tobe ignored if I weren’t paying attention. Just enough that it shouldn’t bother me. But it does.

I glance at Clo. She’s still effortlessly graceful, her coffee cradled between her fingers, but she hasn’t once brought the cup up to her lips. She hasn’t touched the food in front of her either. This time, I hesitate before speaking. “…you’re not eating?”

Clo looks up, amusement flickering in her eyes, as if I’ve caught her in something insignificant. “I never eat first thing in the morning,” she says, resting her chin against the back of her hand. “I’ve never had the stomach for it. Besides, watching others enjoy themselves is enough for me.”

I nod, though my grip tightens ever so slightly on my fork, taking more bites of the food. The cakes are mostly sweet. The biscuits are very crisp. And the tea is soothingly warm. But all of it is a bit bitter…

I reach for my tea again, the warmth grounding me as I take another sip, willing my thoughts to settle. Then—from the corner of my eye—I catch a flicker of movement. Right at the edge of my vision. I freeze, my fingers tightening around the porcelain.

A dark figure stands in the far corner of the sunroom, half-hidden in the shadows where the morning light doesn’t reach. He’s still, silent, andwatching. A sharp pulse of panic beats through me. A chill runs down my spine. My mind stumbles, grasping atwhythis feels familiar.

And then it hits me all at once. I remember a mask. A snarl of red. The green, weaved leaves around us. The weight of unseen silver eyes. My breath catches. My throat goes dry. I try to quench it. But the tea turns against me, slipping the wrong way, burning as I choke.

Clo is beside me in an instant, her chair scraping back, the soft rustle of silk as she leans in.

“Elle.” Her voice is warm, concerned, overly so. Her hand ghostsover my shoulder. “Are you alright?”

I nod, coughing, gripping the table as I fight to catch my breath. My eyes dart back to the corner. But now, it’sempty, nothing but shadow.

I swallow hard, my pulse still unsteady.

Clo watches me, her brows gently drawn. Then, with practiced ease, her voice dips into something smooth, something reassuring. “Slow down.”

Her words come back—slow down—as if they’ve made a home in my mind. It’s not a command. It’scomfort. A suggestion. A truth that slips into my mind before I can resist it. And just like that, I breathe better. My shoulders loosen. The tight coil in my chest unravels steadily.

Clo smiles, pleased. “There,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

I nod slowly. But the bitterness still lingers on my tongue. I brace myself, eyes quickly flicking to the corner. It’s empty. Still empty. No dark figure. No shadow shuffling beyond the reach of morning light. Nothing.

I breathe out slowly, my fingers curling against the table’s edge. My pulse is steady again, my breath more even. It must have been my mind playing tricks on me. A side effect of exhaustion. Or maybe something…worse.

The thought settles heavily. What if this isn’t only memory loss? What if I had hit my head? What if there’s somethingwrongwith me?

I wet my lips, the question forming on my tongue. “Clo, I—”

But before I can finish, Clo rises from her seat, moving toward the glass door with easy grace.

“Stanley,” she says toward the door, warm and welcoming. “Come in, darling.”

I turn just as he steps inside. And for a second, I forget how tobreathe properly again.

Stanley is bigger than Damon but looks so similar to him. Broader shoulders, thicker arms, muscles carved into definition beneath the tight black shirt stretching across his chest. His dark denim fits snug over his strong legs.

He isstriking, the type of person who turns heads without trying. And those eyes. They hit me like lightning, as sharp and knowing as Damon’s, but darker. I’ve seen those eyes before.

A chill licks up my spine, but I don’t move.

Stanley’s gaze sweeps the room before landing on me, pausing. Interest flickers in his expression, casual yet assessing. He doesn’t speak right away, merely watching me, with his posture casual but commanding, as though the entire room bends around him without him having to lift a finger.

I grip my teacup tighter, pulse thrumming beneath my skin. The question I wanted to ask Clo—about my memory, about what might be wrong with me—slips away entirely. Because suddenly, I have new questions. Ones I’m not sure I want the answers to.

Clo’s voice is smooth as always. “Elle, this is my youngest son, Stanley.”

His gaze moves from Clo to me, and suddenly, all the intensity in his eyes melts into charm. The shift isdisarming. Because a second ago, he looked like a man who could break someone in half with his bare hands. Now, he just looks…friendly.