Page 17 of Scorpion

“Ever the genius, Zal.” His smile strikes me straight through the heart.

Zal.

TJ would always call me ZB. The last person to call me Zal was Gaya.

The single syllable wedges itself into my heart and threatens to tear me in two. I curl my fingers into a tight fist like it might fight off the memories of the people I’ve lost.

“Are you going to let me in, or would you prefer I help myself?” Mathijs wears a coy grin. If he’s aware of my inner turmoil, he doesn’t let on. Without waiting for my response, he grabs a brown paper bag off the floor and lets himself inside, ignoring my huff of protest.

His shoulder brushes mine as he passes, and a shudder goes down my spine as I remember all the times we’ve held each other. God, I forgot how much I’ve missed any kind of touch.

The bag crinkles as he sets it on the bench, then rummages through the cabinets pantry.

Crossing my arms, I glare at his profile and try to ignore the way he fills out his suit. The fabric stretches against his shoulders as he moves, and when he deposits his jacket on the bench, loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeve, it’s like all semblance of decorum evaporates.

I’m transfixed on the ripple of his tendons and veins. It’s screwing with my head.

Catching myself, I clear my throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m safely assuming that you haven’t eaten dinner, so I’m remedying the issue.”

“Mathijs, stop.”

He listens, complying only after pulling out the cutlery and tipping the bakmi goreng onto the plate.

“Mathijs,” I growl.

He holds his hands up in surrender after stationing the container of soy sauce beside the plate.

“I can’t accept this. Any of this,” I say, exasperated, waving around the room.

“Be more specific, darling.”

Prick. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“The pool house. The job. The food. The clothes.” I point toward the bedroom. “All of it, Mathijs. It’s too much and too far. I’ll take my stuff, and I’ll be back in two weeks and I’ll move into the actual security wing like I’m supposed to. I can earn my way to a private residence.” I run my hands through my hair, forgetting that I’ve braided it. “Thank you, but I can’t take it, and I won’t.”

The silence stretches, thick and cloying, as he watches me with the intensity of a lion on the hunt. His eyes darkens as he peruses me. The light illuminates his sharp features, casting harsh lines beneath his jaw. I can hear the insects outside, the soft hum of the fridge, and the thunder of my heart.

Maybe he’s disappointed in me. Maybe he’s waiting for me to tell him to leave. Maybe—

“Did the military house you?”

“Yes.”

“Feed you?”

I nod.

“Clothe you?”

“That’s different,” I argue.

“How?” He pushes off the bench and slowly makes his way toward me, one hand in his pocket. “You’ve been employed as my private security, and I think you are well aware that the extent of your job description isn’t protecting me from pickpockets, or holding my hand as I cross the street.” Tilting his head, he purses his lips, looking like he’s trying to navigate a minefield. “You might not know the full extent of the work my parents did, but I know that back in high school you were smart enough to figure out that my father was shot, and he didn’t come home bloody because of a car accident.”

I swallow. I was walking across the foyer just as his dad stumbled inside, clutching his shoulder and leaving a trail of blood on the floor. His mom yelled to call a doctor, and they looked at me with pity when I said he needed to go to the hospital.

The gunshot wasn’t the first sign that Mathijs’s family wasn’t just into finance. Their guards always wore guns—the proper kind. Not a stun gun. There was security wherever they went, and bulletproof windows. Mathijs doesn’t know this, but I saw crates of cash hidden in one of their ranches. Their vineyard had far more muscle than what was appropriate for that industry. The signs were all there.

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