Page 13 of The Hellkeeper

I force my expression into something neutral. “Yeah,” I lie. “It’s... costume jewelry. Probably fake. I found it at a thrift store.”

Margaret scoffs. “If that’s fake, I’m the Queen of England.” She lets the necklace drop against my chest and pats my shoulder. “Seems like someone accidentally sold a family heirloom for cheap.”

I laugh, but it’s not real. She doesn’t notice. She just moves to the fridge, grabbing ingredients, getting back to cooking.

I don’t tell her that I can still feel the kiss. Through the blanket. Pressed to the top of my head.

I don’t tell her that I think I really might be losing my mind.

Margaret wipes her hands on her apron. “I’ll take care of the kitchen prep. But there’s a man who just came in; you need to take his order.”

I nod, grateful to stay busy. The moment my hands stop moving, my thoughts creep in. I can’t let that happen.

I smooth my uniform, grab my notepad, and step into the dining area.

I scan the restaurant, searching for the new customer. He’s near the windows, bathed in soft afternoon light, but there’s nothing soft about him. His eyes are already on me.

Every step toward him feels like walking toward an execution.

He’s handsome, but not in a way that feels safe. His face is all sharp angles and violence. A scar runs from his right ear to his mouth, but it doesn’t take away from his looks, it just makes him more striking. More dangerous.

His eyes are as blue as glaciers, and so cold. Despite the menace rolling off him in waves, heat licks up my spine, making me flush. He's huge. His biceps strain against the fabric of his dark sweater, easily twice the size of my head. Everything about him screams danger.

But I have a job to do. I can’t just refuse to serve a customer because he looks terrifying.

My hands tremble so badly I worry my notepad will slip, but I hope he doesn’t notice. “Hi, welcome. What can I get for you?”

He looks at me like he already knows everything, down to the details of my last cycle.

“You’re nervous.”

Observant. Great.

“I’m fine. Do you, um, know what you want to order?”

He leans back in his chair, one tattooed arm resting on the table, the other raking through his black hair.

“Busy day?” His voice is smooth and deep, rolling over me like smoke.

I shift on my feet. “Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Amelia.”

“Amelia.” He says it like it’s familiar.

Weird.

“I really need to take your order.” My pitch is too high.

Something dark flickers in his eyes, amusement, interest. A game only he knows the rules to.

“Steak,” he finally says. “Rare.”

I jot it down quickly. “And to drink?”

“Water.” He drawls it out, but his gaze burns through me, leaving me exposed.

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