Page 108 of Corrupted Heart

“I like to cook,” he rumbles, shrugging his shoulders.

The fourth floor is almost entirely taken up with a sprawling master bedroom and ensuite bathroom, complete, I’m happy to note, with both a huge walk-in shower and a large white marble soaker tub.

When I step back out into the bedroom, my brow creases. There’s a question that’s been on my mind for a few days now, and I’m not quite sure how to ask it.

I mean, we’re married.

We’re physically…intimate, to say the least.

But…

I clear my throat and turn to him. “Where?—”

“Here,” he growls.

I blink. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

He shrugs. “You were going to ask where you’re sleeping. And the answer is here, in this bed,” he says bluntly, tapping the foot of it.

My face heats. “Okay. And?—”

“So am I.” He looks at me, arching a brow. “Any other questions?”

“None,” I croak out.

Not like I’ve literally ever shared a bed with anyone, but here we are.

A little while later, after I’ve unpacked a bit, I poke my head into the kitchen, where Kratos is chopping vegetables. I resist the urge to comment on how weirdly domestic this feels.

Not weird in a bad way at all. Just—different, considering that most of our interactions so far have been…primal in nature.

Dark, deviant, and fucked-up.

Not folding clothes into drawers or prepping mushrooms.

“Do you mind if I rinse off?”

He glances up at me, amusement on his face.

“It’s your house.”

“No, it’s your house.”

He sighs. “This isn’t exactly a temporary arrangement, you know. It’s not like you’re crashing on my couch for a week.”

Heat rushes up my neck.

“Right.”

He shrugs. “Mi casa es su casa.”

He goes back to chopping, and my gaze wanders to the black t-shirt stretched over his thick biceps and filled by his massive shoulders. At the way the tattoo ink of a revolver on his forearm ripples as the tight, veined skin cords with his chopping motion.

Okay, domestic Kratos is seriously a turn-on.

I’m a second away from asking him if he wants to rinse off with me. But then I chicken out. It’s something I’ve noticed as we’ve progressed to where we are now: in the church, in the dark, when he’s wearing the mask and I’m his prey, I’m bold.

I ask him to fuck me. Beg him to hurt me or chase me.

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