Page 15 of Things We Burn

I didn’t know why, but the tattoo seemed beautiful yet somehow sad. I ached to know the history of it.

“I told you to stay upstairs,” Kane said as he turned toward me. Though I hadn’t spoken, Kane must’ve sensed my presence. He was grinning. He didn’t look like the man who would have such a sad scene immortalized into his back. “You’re a woman who doesn’t do what you’re told… I like that.”

I found myself grinning back even though I wasn’t someone who easily smiled. People, mostly men, often commented on my perpetual ‘resting bitch face.’

That didn’t bother me. Women who didn’t smile on command, who didn’t walk and talk the way men wanted them to, and most especially, women who had power, were more often than not labeled as bitches.

I looked around.

The kitchen was nice, like the rest of the brownstone. All renovated with hardwood floors, expensive art, tasteful furnishings. The long space contained quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances, everything top of the line and sparkling clean. Everything except where Kane had been. That area was an explosion of ingredients, chopping boards, plates.

I kept an impeccably clean kitchen. Didn’t tolerate any kind of mess. My staff knew their station had to be spotless at all times. This was absolute chaos to my relentless order. Yet for some reason, it didn’t set my teeth on edge.

I perched on the barstool at the kitchen island.

“I’m not one to do as I’m told,” I agreed. “Nor am I someone who lays in bed while someone else cooks for me.”

I didn’t add that I’d never had the opportunity to lay in bed as someone cooked for me. It felt a little pathetic.

His mouth twitched. “Well, we’re gonna have to change that, aren’t we?”

My stomach dipped at the way he said it. So offhand, as if there were going to be opportunities for us to change that,chances to use the royal ‘we.’ I told myself not to read too much into it.

“Wine? Beer?” He nodded to the wine fridge beside the subzero.

I licked my lips. I was thirsty. Not that I was a big drinker, but right then, a crisp, cold beer suddenly sounded appetizing.

“Beer,” I responded. “But I can get it.”

“Keep that luscious ass in that stool.” He pointed at me with a spatula. “I got it.”

I pursed my lips. It went against everything in me to not just heed the command but to let someone run after me, let alone a man. I was about power balances, not owing anyone anything, not seeming weak, vulnerable.

An intuitive voice inside of me told me that Kane was the most important person to guard myself against, yet I ignored it. I kept my ass in the stool as he strutted to the fridge to get me a beer.

I watched his naked body move. It was covered in tattoos and scars. A lot of scars. I’d noticed them when he undressed, but I had other things to concentrate on at that point. I didn’t really think about what being Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes meant. But it meant pain, by the looks of those scars. Risk.

The scars, the tattoos, the muscles, the bone structure all spoke of a dangerous life, yet the cheeky grin he wore spoke of something else too. Something more playful. Safer. Or maybe that made him all the more dangerous.

The hiss of a bottle opening sounded before Kane rounded the island to place the beer in front of me, pulling up my hair to kiss the back of my neck.

I shivered.

The casual affection was unnerving.

But what was more unnerving was that it felt natural. Right.

“Gotta say, babe, I thought of you as more of a fine wine type of gal,” he said, walking back to the pan where he resumed the process of cooking.

I put my shaking hand around the bottle dripping with condensation, taking a long drink to wet my dry throat.

I contemplated his words. “I suppose that aligns with what little you know of me.” I wiped the wetness from the bottle onto his tee. “I don’t mind wine, especially the expensive stuff. It’s my job to know it, pair it with the dishes I serve. Well, it’s technically my sommelier's job, but I don’t hand over reins easily.”

“Well, that tracks with whatlittleI know of you,” he teased, looking over his shoulder at me.

The underlying assumption being he thought of me as a control freak didn’t feel like an insult. Kane didn’t seem to feel threatened by the control I liked or my ‘abrasive’ personality, my inability to go with the flow—all things previous boyfriends had been vocal about.

Then again, he’d just met me, and I’d uncharacteristically gone with the flow, so he hadn’t really had the full experience. My throat clenched at the thought of someone obviously reckless and free like Kane knowing the real me… My schedules, my routine, my order. He would not like that.

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