Page 3 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)

My shoulders dropped slightly. My fingers tightened on the towel.

Of course. I should have expected that response.

It was the same one he always gave me. “Right,” I said, hating the hint of disappointment that crept into my voice.

I returned to the table, watching him work.

The silence between us grew heavier, filled with all the things I couldn’t say. All the things he wouldn’t say.

Salvation moved to the sink, washing his hands before drying them on another towel.

His wedding ring -- the simple gold band we’d bought outside the courthouse -- caught the light.

A reminder of promises made, boundaries established.

Although, at the time, I hadn’t realized our wedding had been faked.

A hacker had taken care of everything, and the ceremony had been for show, mostly for me.

It was one of the many kindnesses Salvation had given me in our years together.

“Should be ready in about ten minutes,” he said, breaking the silence.

I nodded, though he wasn’t looking at me. “It smells wonderful.”

A small smile touched his lips. “Clover’s favorite.”

Always about Clover. Never about us. I couldn’t blame him -- she was his daughter in all the ways that mattered. I was just… what? A responsibility? A charity case? A stranger he’d married to keep safe?

The thought stung, though I knew it wasn’t fair. Salvation had never pretended our arrangement was anything other than what it was. A marriage on paper. He’d never promised love, never suggested our relationship would evolve into something more intimate.

And yet… the way he sometimes looked at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice. The gentle care he took to never push me, never rush me. The way he’d touch my shoulder, just briefly, when passing by -- so careful, so restrained. All those things always gave me hope we could have something more.

I watched as he set plates on the counter, his movements efficient, practiced. There was something mesmerizing about his hands -- strong, capable, but never threatening. Never cruel.

So different from the hands that had hurt me before.

“Yulia?” His voice pulled me from my thoughts. “Everything okay?”

I blinked, realizing I’d been staring. Again. “Yes. Sorry. Just… thinking.”

He studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he nodded and turned back to his task.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence.

Outside, the sun had set, turning the kitchen window into a mirror that reflected our odd little tableau.

Salvation at the stove, me at the table.

Close enough to touch, separated by an invisible wall neither of us seemed able to breach.

If you don’t make a move, nothing will ever change . Clover’s words echoed in my mind. But what move could I make? How did one bridge such a gap? Especially when I wasn’t even sure what waited on the other side.

Salvation reached for the oven mitts, his shirt riding up again to reveal that same strip of skin.

My pulse quickened. This attraction, this longing -- it had been growing for years.

At first, I’d dismissed it as gratitude, as the natural response to being rescued.

But it had deepened, evolved into something more complex. More terrifying.

I looked down at my hands, at the faint scars on my wrists.

Reminders of a different life, a different Yulia.

The girl who had given up. Who had seen no future worth living for.

That girl would never have imagined sitting in this warm kitchen, watching this man, feeling this ache of wanting something more.

Maybe that was progress. Maybe that was enough. There was a chance it would have to be, that Salvation would never want anything more from me.

My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. The words I needed to say had been building inside me for so very long. Simple words. Honest words. I want more. I feel something for you. This marriage doesn’t have to be just on paper .

My fingers twisted in my lap as I watched Salvation’s back, the steady movement of his shoulders as he worked.

Just say it. The worst he can do is say no .

But that wasn’t true. The worst he could do was look at me with pity.

With regret. With the gentle rejection I’d seen him use on the club women who sometimes flirted with him.

I drew a deep breath, trying to calm the tremor in my hands.

We couldn’t continue like this forever -- orbiting each other, never touching, never acknowledging the current that sometimes sparked between us when our gazes met.

When our fingers accidentally brushed passing the salt.

When he stood too close behind me, reaching for something on a high shelf.

Salvation turned to check the bread in the oven again. Now. Say it now .

My throat tightened. My pulse hammered in my ears, nearly drowning out the soft sounds of cooking. I licked my dry lips.

“Still need to set the table,” he said, not turning around.

“I’ll do it,” I said, grateful for the momentary reprieve. I stood, legs unsteady, and moved to the counter where he’d placed the plates earlier. The familiar task gave my hands something to do, my mind something to focus on besides the words lodged in my throat.

Plates. Silverware. Napkins . Simple tasks.

Safe actions. But as I finished, the moment of truth loomed again.

Salvation turned off the burner, shifting the pot to a cool element.

Dinner was almost ready. She’d said she wouldn’t, but it wouldn’t be the first time she changed her mind.

If I was going to speak, it had to be now, just in case Clover returned.

Before we settled into our usual routine of polite conversation about safe topics.

I inhaled sharply, hands gripping the back of a chair for support. “Salvation, I --” I began, but stopped abruptly. The words died on my lips as he turned to face me, wooden spoon still in hand, his expression open and attentive.

His eyes -- those gentle, steady eyes -- fixed on mine. Waiting. The moment stretched between us, pregnant with possibility. My heart thundered so loudly I was certain he must hear it. Say it! Tell him . But my courage faltered, dissolving like sugar in hot tea.

“Never mind,” I finally said. “It’s nothing.”

Salvation studied my face, his gaze lingering longer than usual. Something flickered in his eyes -- curiosity? Concern? Something else entirely? For a breathless moment, I thought he might press me, might ask what I’d been about to say.

Instead, he nodded slowly and turned back to the stove.

But something had shifted. I felt it in the air between us, a subtle change in pressure. The way his shoulders tensed slightly. The careful way he avoided looking at me again as he took down two bowls and served the stew, then put slices of bread onto the small plates.

I moved mechanically, placing glasses on the table, filling them with water.

We danced around each other in the small kitchen, suddenly hyperaware of the other’s presence.

When his arm brushed mine as he set the rest of the bread on the table, I flinched as if burned.

He murmured an apology, stepping back quickly.

“Should I call Clover?” I asked, desperate to break the awkward silence.

“You heard her. She’ll eat when she’s ready,” he replied, his voice carefully neutral.

I nodded, taking my usual seat at the table. Salvation remained standing, busying himself at the counter longer than necessary. The tension between us stretched taut, a rubber band pulled to its limit.

What would have happened if I’d spoken? If I’d laid my feelings bare? Would he have rejected me gently? Or worse, would he have accepted out of obligation, out of pity for the broken girl he’d rescued?

Or -- and this possibility terrified me most -- would he have revealed that he felt the same?

Salvation finally sat across from me, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. His eyes met mine briefly before dropping to his bowl.

“Smells delicious,” I offered, my voice unnaturally bright.

He nodded, breaking off a piece of bread. “Thanks.”

Another silence fell, heavy with unspoken words. I pushed my stew around with my spoon, appetite gone. The moment had passed. My chance slipped away like water through cupped hands.

Clover’s footsteps sounded in the hallway, drawing closer. Soon she would join us, and the strange tension would be diluted by her presence. Everything would return to normal -- or what passed for normal in our unusual arrangement.

But as Salvation’s gaze briefly met mine again across the table, I knew something fundamental had changed. That almost-conversation, those unspoken words, hung between us now. A question mark. A possibility.

If you don’t make a move, nothing will ever change .

I hadn’t made my move. Not really. But something had changed anyway. And I wasn’t sure if it was terrifying or exhilarating.