Page 18 of Soul to Possess

“Guess I’ll have to keep that door locked up nice and tight from now on,” he went on. “Since you can’t seem to respect a man’s privacy. Come along. I didn’t cook breakfast for it to sit down there and get cold.”

I froze. “Too bad,” I muttered under my breath. “I didn’t ask you to cook anything for me. And I’m not going anywhere with you.”

His expression darkened. Not angry, just… colder. Controlled.

“You’ll speak loud enough for me to hear you,” he said, his grip still firm on my arm. “And actually, you are goingsomewhere. You’re inmyhouse. You’re going tomykitchen. You’re going to sit down and eat the breakfast I made foryou.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to let the weight of his voice settle against my spine. “Frankly, it seems to me like you’re going alotof places with me.”

“That wasn’t a question,” I muttered, jerking my arm back.

“Go eat.” His tone dropped. Steel wrapped in velvet. Not angry. Just final.

And I—God help me—I went. Not because I wanted to. Because I didn’t know what would happen if I didn’t. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice screamed at me to run, to climb out the nearest window, to break something if I had to. But another voice—quieter, more dangerous—reminded me that Ihadbeen in his room. Ihadcrossed a line.

Maybe I deserved this. Maybe I should stop acting like such an ungrateful little bitch. He had taken me in, hadn’t he? He hadn’t locked me up or tied me down. Yet. And here I was, playing detective like I had any idea what the hell I was doing. So I did what I was taught to do. I smiled. Or something close to it. My lips were dry, cracked from the wind last night, and the stretch hurt. But I did it anyway, just to show him I wasn’t afraid. Or maybe to hide that I was.

He gave a small nod. “Go on then. I gotta lock up my bedroom.”

The shame burned hotter than the coffee I suddenly craved. He hadn’t been kidding about locking the door. Of course he hadn’t. He didn’t strike me as the joking type. I drifted toward the kitchen, slow and heavy like I was walking through a dream I couldn’t wake from. The smell hit me again the closer I got—sweet and warm and stupidly nostalgic. Pancakes. Real ones. Sausage. Eggs. A thick cloud of maple syrup curled in the air, and my stomach growled in betrayal.

My mouth watered the second I stepped into the kitchen. God—it smelled divine. Like real food. Not gas station snacks or boxed noodles. Buthome.When was the last time I’d been this close to a proper meal? Years, probably. Longer, if I was honest with myself. I paused at the table, eyeing the two place settings—one laid out with a proper plate, folded napkin, and a glass of orange juice still beading with condensation. The other was messier. A stainless-steel plate with a folded newspaper beside it, like he hadn’t even considered sitting across from me.

So I took the nice one. The guest’s spot. It had to be mine. I sat down, slow, still uncertain, then reached for the tongs. The pancakes were thick and golden, the sausage still steaming. I piled a little of everything onto my plate, drizzled syrup over it all, and took the first bite. Sweet. Soft. Almost too much to bear.

I closed my eyes as the flavor hit, and for one surreal second, I could’ve wept. Something about it cracked through the tension in my chest like sunlight through ice. I didn’t hear him come in. But Ifeltit. That same strange buzz along my skin I’d felt last night—like my body sensed something my mind hadn’t caught up to yet. I didn’t turn. I just knew he was there. Watching.

He moved quietly, sat across from me in the other chair like he had every right to, and when I finally looked up, his eyes were already on my plate—half empty.

“Taste okay?” he asked, casual, like we were two normal people having breakfast together and not… whatever the hell this was. My face heated. I’d inhaled it like a starving woman. Not exactly the image of grace. He smiled and winked at me. That damn wink again.

It landed somewhere between charming and unsettling, like everything else about him.

“It’s really good,” I said, reaching for another bite. “It’s been a while since I had a decent home-cooked meal.”

He nodded slowly. “Don’t cook?”

“Not much sense in cooking for just myself.”

“Right,” he said. “What about Marvin? You planning on cooking forhim?”

I froze for half a second.

“Um… sure,” I said, carefully. “I would. For my husband, yeah. That’s part of it, I guess.”

“Part of thejob?” he asked, eyebrows raised as he began loading his own plate.

My stomach tensed. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying—being a wife comes with expectations. You know?”

“Hm,” he murmured. “See, I know your mail-order husband’s name. But I don’t knowyours.That seems a little backwards, doesn’t it—seeing as he’s not here, andyouare?”

He poured syrup over his pancakes like this was a perfectly normal conversation.

“Oh. Right. It’s—Genevieve. My friends call me Gennie,” I added, catching myself.

He tilted his head. “Nice to meet you, Gennie.”

“You’re not my friend.”

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