Page 57 of Kill for a Kiss

His voice is calm, yet careful like he’s holding his breath. But my mind doesn’t know how to answer. It slips sideways, catching on the bitter taste of memory. Tea, Clo’s favored blend that was floral and laced with something I now know too well. A drug that dimsmy mind and makes me forget.

I flinch at the memories, fogginess threatening to take over. But then I look up, to fight it by staring at my favorite view. Sterling’s staring at me, his gorgeous gray eyes steady and knowing. He doesn’t say a word, but I see it in the soft furrow of his brow, like he’s ready to take the hurt from me. I don’t want him to. This is mine to shoulder.

I tuck the throw blanket closer, pressing my arms around myself like I can squeeze the cold out of my bones, trying to stop the shivers and the pain pulsing through my skull. I know what this is. I’ve seen it before in so many people, ones I thought I buried far away in my memories. But those have been coming back to me slowly. And now I feel it in myself.

It’s withdrawal. From Kys. I know it too well. I wish I didn’t. It drags old memories from places I’d buried them, in childhood fragments. They don’t come back clearly. They fracture and blur. Little flashes of fear and frantic voices I couldn’t place then and still can’t now. They unravel inside me like threads too knotted to follow, each one pulling tighter and tighter.

It hurts. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again. But then I look at him, letting my throbbing eyes linger.

Sterling. His shimmering eyes, silver in this sunlight. His dark hair, so inviting. Some silken strands of silver-white show in the jet-black. And suddenly, the pain fades, even a little, enough to breathe again.

My gaze traces the line of his jaw, the slope of his wide shoulders, and the firm broadness of his chest. He comes closer, almost touching but only reaching toward me. He moves like someone steady enough to hold the world if he had to. I think he would.

The throbbing thoughts slip away. The fog in my mind clears. In this moment, I forget the pain. I forget the past. I forget everything except the comfort of him in the room.

It’s odd to feel this way, when part of me still wants Stan. But eventhat want feels rather further away now, fainter maybe. Because when Sterling’s here, my heart doesn’t reach for anything else.

But instead of giving in to my desires, I reach for the mug he sets in front of me. It’s not Clo’s tea. That recognition relaxes my shoulders and lets me breathe even easier. Sterling’s tea smells naturally earthier, more herbal, like dried leaves with a hint of sweet flowers.

Sterling doesn’t say anything, watching me from where he stands. I meet his eye and sip the tea. I smile at the taste. It’s not bitter. It doesn’t taste like poison. It tastes warm. In fact, that’s what this whole moment feels like. Warm. A little quiet. But that’s us.

I smile a little more, my eyes following him as he reluctantly returns to the stove. I don’t think I could ever want to stop staring at him, even though I remember him more a little clearly now. I picture the vineyard, and in it, the masked man. The one who held me tightly. The one I saw standing over bodies.

I remember only that. I know there’s more. I feel it in my gut. And still, I don’t look away. Because I’m not afraid of him. I don’t think I ever was. I don’t know what that says about me. Or him. Or this strange quiet between us.

All I know is, sitting here in a cabin I don’t remember being brought to, with a man I barely know but feel safe with, I feel truly present. And when he finally turns toward me, flushed and avoiding my eyes like he doesn’t know what to do with this silence either…I think I like that about him.

Sterling Song-Smith. Dangerous and composed. But right now, rather flustered. And frankly, endearing. I shouldn’t think it. Though, I certainly do. Sterling is adorable.

***

We eat in silence for a while. I shouldn’t be surprised, since Sterling made the food, but it’s surprisingly delicious, rich and warm, a comfort I hadn’t realized I missed.

I glance up. “This is…really good,” I say, quieter than I mean to.

Sterling shuffles in his seat subtly, but not subtle enough. “How are you feeling?”

I smile, realizing he avoided my compliment. But I can’t address it, when his voice is so distracting, so deep and smooth. I can hear it so much clearer now without his mask on. “I’m fine,” I answer.

He nods and doesn’t say anything else. He takes a slow sip of the coffee I can smell from across the table. It smells bitter, burnt at the edges, but he drinks it like it’s necessary.

I pick at my plate, letting the silence stretch. When I glance up again, he’s watching me. He does that a lot—staring as though he’s reading more than I’m saying. Like he’s memorizing me. I wonder why.

He looks away the second I catch him. He’s so composed, often seems to be, but there’s a tension in the way he holds himself. Something rigid and quiet in his body language, even more than usual today. His fingers tap against the side of his mug like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You should keep eating,” he says, nodding toward my plate.

I take another bite just to make him stop looking so worried.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

“It’s better,” I lie. The truth is, it still throbs.

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell because he still looks worried. But he doesn’t call me out on it. Instead, he refills my tea with no honey or bitterness. Only warmth from the kettle’s pour. Then, almost as a whisper, he asks, “What do you remember?”

The question settles between us like weight. I blink. I could lie, pretend I’m still too dazed, but I don’t. “The vineyard,” I say. “Themasked man.”

He freezes, his shoulders going still.