Page 98 of Nothing More

“Cassandra’s doing art things on her new computer. Tenny and Reese went to meet Kat, and Miles is…somewhere. I’m assuming you saw your compatriots in the other room.”

He nodded confirmation when he straightened and offered the spilled onions in his cupped palm. She pointed to the garbage disposal in the neighboring sink and he tossed them in. “What about Ian?”

“He said he was going home” – she resumed chopping, blinking hard, and Toly didn’t think the wetness glimmering on her lashes was the result of the onions alone – “but until Alec returns, I assume that means the office. The man could get blood from a stone. I assume there’s always someone he can extort, no matter the hour.”

It was the snippiest he’d heard her sound about Ian. They ribbed one another, but in general gave the impression of affectionate friends and allies. “You wanted him to stay?” he guessed.

She sniffed. Dabbed delicately at the tip of her nose with the back of her onion-holding hand. “No. Frankly, I don’t want anyone to stay.” She paused, before she gathered up the heap of diced onion in both hands, and flicked a look up at him through dew-dropped lashes. Her mouth twitched sideways in apology. “Well. I don’t want most people to stay.”

His pulse gave a traitorous thump he chose not to examine, lest it lead to more thoughts of tucking her hair back and attempting to give her a soft look.

She reached for a carrot, already peeled and sitting beside the cutting board.

Food seemed the safest topic. “What are you making?”

“Chicken soup. Or, I suppose I’m attempting to make it.” She motioned toward her phone leaned up against a vase of lilies. “I found a recipe online. Whether or not I can follow it is another story.”

The thought of having something useful to do inspired him to movement – and inspired relief, too. Standing here watching her left his hands twitching on the edge of the counter, the urge to touch growing by the moment. “Soup’s easy. You got a pot big enough for it?”

“Somewhere, I suppose. If the cupboards are as well-stocked as the fridge.”

He did the searching, and found a brand-new enameled Dutch oven beneath the cooktop. Gathered oil, and garlic, and snipped rosemary and thyme sprigs from the little herb pots in the window. When Ian furnished a place, he spared no detail, apparently.

When they were standing at the stove, onions, carrots, and celery simmering in the bottom of the pot, Toly heard a quiet sniffle beside him, nearly lost to the hiss of the veg. They were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, nearly touching, and when he turned his head, he caught the fast flash of her hand, like the flutter of a pale bird against her face, as she dashed at tears.

“The onions–” he began, trying to give her that small dignity.

She gave a fast shake of her head and turned away, swiping at her cheeks, her eyes, sniffing hard and fast: angry with herself.

Again, Toly found himself caught between two impulses. He wanted to put an arm around her and offer his shoulder; that urge to be a safe place again. A shelter where she could hide her face, a woman who so desperately wanted to look strong and stern.

And he wanted to give her space, respect the façade she’d crafted over the years.

In a choked, wet voice, she said, “He was in myhome. In myshower. He’s got my – my bloodyDNA.Christ.”

It was the quaver in her voice, the notes of helplessness, anger, fear, that decided him. She would never turn to her little sister, wanting to be the rock Cassandra could rely upon. Her brothers weren’t here, nor her friend. She neededsomeone– or he thought she did, anyway. Touch won out.

He moved slowly, as he had their first night together, giving her a chance to pull away. Looped an arm around her shoulders, hand on her clenching biceps, and steered her toward himself.

She collapsed. Like all her strings had been cut, she slumped against his chest and pressed her face in the crook of his neck, her cheek hot from emotion, damp in streaks where a few tears had escaped her swiping. She gripped the back of his shirt, hard; any harder and she’d have ripped it. As furious as she was fearful.

If he was going to do a thing, he might as well commit, so he shifted his hold to cradle her properly in both arms. It felt only natural to cup the back of her head with one hand, and smooth the other up and down her spine, where her muscles were drawn taut as piano wire.

Her shoulders drew up high on a big breath, and then she sighed out, hot and forceful against his throat, and sagged.

I did that, he thought, proud in a way he’d never been before.I got her to relax.

Someone safe.

It felt…good. Damn good. Not dissimilar to the satisfaction of completing a hit without a hitch…but less hollow. Warmer. Easier.

Potentially addictive.

He caught a whiff of too-brown onions before she finally pulled back. He didn’t want to turn her loose, but did so, and was rewarded, before she wiped her now-dry face one more time and turned to the pot, with a small, fleeting, embarrassed, but deeply sincere smile.

She plucked a spoon from the jar beside the stove and stirred the mirepoix briskly. Neither of them spoke, but it didn’t feel necessary. The air was loose now, between them, ripe formore.

“What does the recipe say?” she asked, after a bit. “Garlic, next?”