Page 113 of When the Storm Breaks
Haiyden chuckles, low. “He does it because he knows you won’t push back.”
I glance at him, arching a brow. “Well, aren’t you supposed to defend my honor or something?”
His smirk is slow. “Don’t I?”
He does, doesn’t he? In all the ways that matter.
I shake off the nerves creeping in, pushing Chase’s words to the back of my mind. No need to overthink this now.
Turning back to the stove, I set my phone on the counter, letting music spill into the space between us, joining the soft scrape of my knife against the cutting board.
Haiyden leans against the counter, his attention quiet but constant. He raises his glass occasionally, sipping slow, watching.
I can’t tell if he’s focused on me, the meal, or something else entirely.
After a long stretch of silence, he finally speaks.
“What’s on the five-star menu tonight, Calla?”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “Surprise.”
He lifts his wine glass, leaning against the counter. “I’m just trying to prepare myself. You’ve been very focused. Which is very… distracting.”
I huff a laugh, returning to the garlic. “You’re the one hovering. Maybe if you weren’t watching me like I’m being judged on national TV, I could actually focus.”
He raises an eyebrow, setting his wine glass down. “You want my help?”
I keep my tone light, adjusting my grip on the knife. “I want you to stop distracting me.”
His smile turns suspicious.
He steps closer, his presence loading my senses. Slowly, he places both hands on either side of my hips, fingers pressing just firmly enough to keep me still. He keeps them there for a moment, then drags them lower—teasing, deliberate, heading toward my center.
“Define distracting,” he whispers, voice playful.
Heat crawls through me now, my pulse kicking up.
Earth to my vagina: Get. It. Together.
I square my shoulders, tilt my head just enough to shoot him a look. “Can’t you just sit there and look pretty while I make you a nice, home-cooked meal?”
He chuckles—slow, smug, clearly pleased with himself—and it sets something off inside me.
He presses a soft kiss to my forehead and steps back.
“Yes, Chef.”
I let the garlic simmer in the pan for a few minutes before adding the chopped tomatoes, trying to keep the oil from popping too much.
The smell wraps around me—garlic mellowing in the pan,tomatoes bubbling into something warm and tangy. It smells like comfort. Like home, when I had one that felt like this.
But something feels off.
Haiyden sits at a stool at the counter, watching me, but there’s a sudden stiffness in the way he holds himself, his shoulders locking up like he’s bracing for impact.
The first splatter of hot oil lands on the stove.
A second later, another pops.
