To prove my point, a large chunk of frozen broth still floats in the pot.
And I know exactly what happened. The pot got hot, the block of ice tipped against the side, and instead of melting out of the ice and dropping into the broth below, the meatball decided to sear itself to the metal.
Using one of the spoons, I scrape at the burned meatball. “Why couldn’t you just behave?”
When it finally breaks free and drops into the soup below, I realize I probably should have tried to scoop the burned parts out.
Whatever, too late now.
I bite my lip, eyeing the lid, but decide to leave it off.
Leaving the soup to finish melting and heating, I grab the mugs and head into the living room.
Hans’s gaze is already on me.
“Soup’s almost ready,” I say, crossing the room, noticing that it smells like smoke in this room too.
I also notice that Hans is trying not to smile.
CHAPTER 20
Hans
Should’ve known it wouldn’t be an enemy that gets me, but rather, pretty little Cassandra burning my house down from the inside.
I lift the spoon to my lips, pretending that I don’t notice Cassandra standing there staring at me.
The scent of burned meat overwhelms any other pleasant aroma the soup might give off, but I keep my features relaxed as the first taste hits my tongue.
I take a second bite, then take pity on Cassandra and look her way.
“Okay?” Her expression is so hopeful it twists something in my chest.
“Yes.” I nod. “Thank you.”
Her mouth pulls into a bright smile, and tension drops from her shoulders. “Oh, good.” She points at my empty mug. “Would you like another?”
I nod and watch her ass in those fucking leggings as she sways back into the kitchen.
I lied to her earlier when she asked if I’d had dinner. I had two ham sandwiches. I’m not the least bit hungry. But I can’t turn down her food.
My fingers flex around the spoon as I take another bite.
Even assuming it wouldn’t be good, I couldn’t turn down a chance to consume something she made.
As she walks back into the living room carrying two mugs, I wonder if there’s a way I could ask her to write Italian wedding soup on a Post-it for me. It feels wrong to not have this meal documented like the rest.
But then Cassandra sits on the couch next to me, and I accept that this meal isn’t like the others. This isn’t me standing in the kitchen, choking down what she’d left on my front step. This is me sitting two feet away from her gloriously soft body.
Nothing has changed. I still shouldn’t have her here with me. Shouldn’t let her anywhere near me. But I can’t find it in me to make her leave. Because deep down, I want her to stay.
“Figured I’d have a second too.” She gestures her mug to me as she sets mine on the coffee table. “It is the weekend, after all.” Then she settles back into the couch, drink cradled in her hand. “What’re you watching?” Her brows furrow beneath her curly bangs.
I want to brush her hair aside and trace my finger over the cute wrinkles that form across her forehead when she makes that expression.
“What language is that?”
What…?
My brain catches up, and I turn back to the TV.
Oops.
It’s a Swedish film. In Swedish.
I don’t usually slip up like this, showing someone something about myself by accident. I don’t need her knowing I speak Swedish. Or Italian. Or Spanish.
Pretending I misheard her, I pick up the remote to exit out of the movie, then hand the remote to Cassandra.
“Oh, I didn’t mean…” She tries to give it back to me, but I pick my spoon back up and gesture to my throat.
If I’m stuck faking this cold and eating burned meat soup instead of feasting on her body, I’m going to use the few advantages it gives me.
Sighing, she clicks through the available titles, stopping on a documentary about secret societies.
I can feel her watching me for a sign of how I feel, but when I don’t say anything, she selects it.
Cassandra sets the remote on the coffee table, then props her feet next to it, mirroring my position. “I’ve been meaning to watch this. And if you don’t like it…” She takes a sip of her drink. “Too bad. You had ample opportunity to object.”
I smirk around my next bite of burned soup. Butterfly has a backbone.
CHAPTER 21
Cassie
Hans finishes his bowl of soup. Then his second, eating the rest of what I brought. But when I started to stand up to go wash his bowl, he waved me to keep sitting.
So I did.
And after finishing my second whiskey drink, I let myself sink back into his couch.
The piece of furniture isn’t much to look at, but it’s incredibly comfortable. Not a cheap hand-me-down at all.
I turn my body so my side is against the back of the couch, then lift my feet onto the seat between us.
I’ll just stay until the end of the show. Then I’ll go home and let Hans rest.
As the host of the documentary talks about the victim traveling to Europe, I think about the movie Hans had been watching and wonder what language it was.
And then my lids start to lower.
CHAPTER 22
Hans
I gather the dishes from the coffee table, decades of training keeping my movements silent.
I set them in the sink, next to the soup pot, then circle through the house, securing the front door and double-checking the rest of the access points.
Finally, when the only light left on is the lamp next to my bed, I return to the living room and bend down to scoop Cassandra’s sleeping form into my arms.
CHAPTER 23
Cassie
Heat surrounds me, and my head sags to the side.
My eyes are heavy when I try to open them.
“Hush.” Hans’s deep voice vibrates through my body. “Go back to sleep.”
CHAPTER 24
Hans
I stand next to my bed, holding Cassandra against my chest.
She fell back asleep in the twelve seconds it took me to get from the couch to here, and I don’t want to set her down. I don’t want to lose the weight of her in my arms.
Having her this close…
Heat simmers through my veins, and I hold her tighter.
In response, Cassandra lets out a sigh that sounds so content I feel it in my bones.
Just set her down. You can climb into bed and have her back in your arms in moments.
Accepting that I have to, I lower her to the mattress.
Cassandra makes a soft sound, then rolls onto her side.
Her hands grope at nothing, so I grab my comforter—which I’d flipped back before picking her up—and tuck it around her shoulders.
Her fingers drag the fabric up to her face, pressing it against her mouth.
Then she settles.
And she looks so right, so at home, curled up in my bed.
It’s the perfect sort of torture. Because now I know what it could be like.
Just like knowing what her mouth tastes like. Or knowing how much heat radiates from her hot little pussy when she’s worked up.
Now I know the sight of her under my blankets.