Page 70 of The Bonds We Break

“Good. Otherwise, I’m going to need an office in one of those rooms upstairs.”

“You paying for that?”

I roll my eyes. “I seem to recall that when we were at the club, you promised that as part of our deal, you would set me up with a home office.”

“Guess I did. What’s for dinner?”

Something cold skitters down my spine. I remember how Dad would come home and demand the same thing of mom. “Whatever you make for yourself.”

King huffs as he perches his delicious denim-clad ass on the table next to my chair. He crosses his arms, stretching the fabric of a long-sleeved Henley. “That isn’t how this goes. You’re going to make dinner.”

“What, because ‘you’re a man, hear me roar?’ I don’t like cooking. Not good at it. Not part of the deal. Remember?”

King says nothing. Instead, he intently stares at me in the way he does. The way that makes me feel naked and yet fills me with heat. He reaches out, tilts my chin, and rubs his thumb over my lips. “You’re a mouthy little thing when triggered.”

I swallow. He knows. But I don’t want him to notice my weaknesses. “‘If I be waspish, best beware my sting.’”

“Definitely triggered. I’m guessing that’s Shakespeare or one of them old dudes again. You only quote them when there’s something going on in that head of yours. I’m thinking it’s to do with that asshole dad of yours.”

“I don’t want to talk about my dad.”

“I think it would be good for you.”

I push back the chair and stand. “Well, I think it would be good for you to talk aboutyourdad. About the way he kept secrets from you. And how you feel about Clutch railing your sister. And how you feel about Skylar.”

King’s eyes narrow. Frown lines appear on what had been his relaxed demeanor. “Saint told you all that?”

Fuck. What did I just do? Were these the kinds of club secrets he was never meant to talk about? I hope I didn’t dig the pit my brother already has to climb out of even deeper.

“Shit. I’m so sorry. That was—”

“You know what? Fuck you, Rae. You’re going to cook dinner because it’s your fucking turn. I cooked last night, in case you’ve forgotten. I’ll be in the shower.”

His boots hit heavy as he storms through the house. I jump when I hear the bathroom door slam.

I place my hand over my mouth and bite back the tears that tingle across the bridge of my nose. “Well done, Rae,” I mutter out loud.

There are lots of red flags when it comes to a good psychologist or therapist—if they skip building trust, if they judge their client, if they give unsolicited advice. I just did all three.

And why?

Because I was asked to make dinner.

My dad still has that kind of control over me.

You’re going to cook dinner because it’s your fucking turn. I cooked last night, in case you’ve forgotten.

He had. He cooked patiently and quietly while I wrote my list.

Fuck my life.

And do I need to warn Ryker that I said the wrong thing? If I message him about pancakes, he’ll come straight over without a thought for his own safety.

In my personal experience, apologies aren’t worth shit. I heard enough of them from my father. I know that action is the only thing that counts.

So I step into the kitchen. At the store, King bought a flank steak. With a quick search on my phone, I figure out what the heck to do with it. I make a marinade of soy sauce, brown sugar, lemon, and olive oil. Once the beef is marinating, I set about making some sides. Sweet potato fries. A simple salad.

After I pull it all together, I get the pad of paper that has my sex list on it and create a new one on the next page, titledHow to get over my trigger of cooking meals for someone else.