Page 115 of Hunted to Be Mine
“Twenty-six hours without moving?” I stared as he helped me sit again. “Did you wear adult diapers?”
He actually laughed, brief and rusty, like the sound surprised him. “Some things are kept secret. Forever.”
A small, ridiculous swell of satisfaction rose in my chest. Getting him to laugh felt like a win we both needed.
He moved to the kitchenette and began unpacking. “I got supplies. Enough to last until we figure out the next move.”
He set out eggs, bread, butter, jam, cheese, fruit, a coil of local cured meat, and a handful of basic medical items.
“How’s the pain?”
“Manageable,” I said, then amended at his look, “Okay, everything hurts, but I’m not dying.”
He took out a small bottle. “These will help. Not as strong as the hospital’s, but they won’t fog your thinking.”
I swallowed two tablets with coffee. The burn felt perfect.
“Coffee on an empty stomach isn’t ideal with those pills.” Wolfe slid the mug from my hand and set it on the counter. “Let me make you something first.”
I leaned on the counter, watching him rummage through bags. “Look at you. Domestic.”
“I can handle scrambled eggs.” He cracked shells into a bowl.
Watching him work hit me sideways. Wolfe Lennox, lethal operative, trained killer, whisking eggs while winter light traced the edges of his profile. The same hands that had ended lives now sliced bread with quiet efficiency.
“Who taught you?” I asked. “Family? A girlfriend? A culinary school dusted in gunpowder between contracts?”
He paused with the spatula over the pan. “I don’t know.”
Three words. They landed like a stone.
“I make a mean omelet though,” he added, his tone deliberately lighter.
“Mean as in angry or mean as in good?” I asked. “Because angry eggs sound unappetizing.”
“Both.” He flipped the omelet with a quick flick. “Depends who I’m cooking for.”
“And which am I getting?”
He glanced over a shoulder, something warmer sparking in his eyes. “You’ll find out.”
Five minutes later, he set a plate in front of me—a perfectly folded omelet alongside buttered toast. Simple. Inviting.
“This looks suspiciously competent.” I tasted. Fluffy eggs, perfectly seasoned. “Okay, I’m impressed. The deadly agent makes an excellent breakfast.”
“Excellent?” His brow lifted as he sat across from me.
“Fine. Outstanding. Top-tier. Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
I took another bite and studied him. The bruises on his face had faded to yellow-green. Exhaustion still shadowed his eyes. How much sleep he had since we ran?
“So,” I said, “I have questions.”
“I figured.”
“What about Mattie and Damon?” I set my fork down. “Are they safe?”
