Page 78 of Things We Burn

He stopped giving interviews then. He was fired from his restaurant, dropped from sponsorship deals. His life went up in flames.

It might’ve been satisfying to see if my own life wasn’t burning to cinders too. I wasn’t sleeping. Mike followed me everywhere since I was never not stalked by paparazzi.

My staff was quieter around me at the restaurant, the environment of my kitchen forever changed. I went through the motions every service, unable to stop staring at the spot wheremy life had changed forever. There were no blood smears there, it had been cleaned to shining, but I couldn’t stop seeing it.

My food was still good, it must’ve been. Not because of me but because of years of honed instincts, of highly trained staff who could run my restaurant without me.

I’d only seen Kane once.

Once. I didn’t know how the justice system normally worked, but surely, this wasn’t right.

“You’re too thin, Chef,” he said the second after he’d hugged me, inhaling my hair. Kissing my neck. My mouth. My forehead. “You need to take care of yourself.”

I took stock of him. He was still built with packed muscle, still devastatingly handsome, but his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles rimming them as if he weren’t sleeping.

“I’m fine,” I said, taking a seat next to him. “I’m focusing on you.”

I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to show weakness, wouldn’t give him any reason to worry about me, but I’d wanted to crumble right there and then, seeing him locked up like that.

“And I’m good, not goin’ anywhere.” He squeezed my hand. “We need to get you in a new apartment, one the press doesn’t know about. One with more security.”

“You’re worried aboutmysecurity right now?” I scoffed, shaking my head. “No, we’re not doing that. You’re not pulling the protective alpha move, especially not right now whenyouneed protection.”

He raised his brow playfully, a shadow of who he used to be. “You think these are just for show, Chef?” He flexed his biceps. “I can take care of myself if I must, but that’s not even an issue since they’ve got me segregated.” He scoffed at that. “Could do with some conversation, some distraction, even if it is dodging a shank.”

My blood went cold. “We do not joke about you getting shanked.”

His expression cleared immediately. “Heard, Chef.” There was a pause, the room far too quiet, too cold. Too sterile. I wanted to be in a bed with Kane. I wanted the noisy New York streets, I wanted coffee and reading the newspaper together as the city woke up.

I had the strong sense that I’d never get any of that again.

My lungs spasmed at the prospect.

“I saw the article,” Kane said, toying with our intertwined fingers. He hadn’t let go of me since I walked into the room. His hands on me were both a balm and torture. We could touch, hug and give chaste kisses but nothing else. I wanted to bury myself in him, but I couldn’t.

“So fuckin’ proud of you, Chef.” His eyes were clear, sparkling, reverent. “Takes a lot of courage to do that. Say the words out loud, let them be true. Takes a fuck of a lot more to serve them up to the world.”

I swallowed glass, willing myself not to cry. I wanted to reply. I couldn’t.

“I don’t regret it,” he continued. “In case you were wonderin’. Don’t regret it for a second, hurting him. I regret it hurtingyou.” His hand tightened around mine. “I regret it because it put a spotlight on you, a target on you that you don’t deserve.” His eyes simmered with rage, with guilt. “The good part of me says I should regret it purely for that, for putting any hurt on my woman. But that selfish, greedy, rage-filled part of me is infinitely glad I got to wet my knuckles with his blood. Not very evolved of me, Chef, but what can I say? I’m an animal deep down, protectin’ what’s mine.”

Mine.

He still considered me his. After everything. There was none of the blame I expected, felt I deserved, blame that certainsections of the country were sure I deserved. No, none of that came from Kane.

“I’m scared,” I admitted in a small whisper. “I’m terrified for you.” That was putting it lightly. I wouldn’t tell him about my nightmares, about sitting in the bottom of my shower, staring blankly at the tiled walls.

“Good,” he said simply. “Means there’s a chance of you being there waiting for me when I walk out of here.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” I vowed without a second thought.

“Promise?”

I heard it then. The fractures in his tone, the way it wavered. The strong, cocky formidable man in front of me faded out for a moment, and the vulnerable, abandoned and unloved boy appeared in his place.

This time it was me who tightened the hold on our intertwined hands.

“Promise,” I whispered.

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