Page 28 of Sweet Doe
I’d kill to feel that again.
But I won’t push her. Not yet. Not until she comes to me this time. Not until she asks for it. I want her to crawl back into my lap on her own. I want to hear her say it. I want the begging to come from a place that’s deeper than fear. A place that sounds like mine.
Until then—I cook.
Because I want her to see what this could be. What we could be.
It’s a stupid fucking gesture, probably, but it’s one I’ve been planning all day. Venison steaks, seared in a cast iron over the stove. Garlic mashed potatoes. Buttered carrots. No peas—she hates those. I remember. I remember everything. The way she’d wrinkle her nose at them in takeout containers. The way she’dscoop her food around them. The way her eyes lit up over a perfectly cooked steak. I’m not guessing here.
I studied her. Watched her. Learned her.
I don’t just know her taste in food—I know her.
She moves eventually. Leaves the couch and drifts over to the pine bar stools on the far side of the kitchen. The blanket’s still around her shoulders, and her legs are bare. She climbs onto the stool without a word, watching me cook with her chin propped in her palm, eyes low-lidded and unreadable.
The image nearly guts me.
This is how it’s supposed to be. Her there. Me here. The cabin humming with heat. The snow falling outside like the world forgot we exist. Just the two of us.
Mine.
“You’re quiet today,” I murmur, not looking at her yet.
She shrugs. “Not much to say.”
But her voice is soft. Not biting. Not cold. I take that as a win.
“Steak’s almost done.” I plate it up—hers first. Medium rare. Exactly right. I scoop a generous pile of potatoes beside it and arrange the carrots just how she likes them. I slide it in front of her, then grab a second plate for myself.
When I finally sit down next to her, she’s staring at the food like it’s some kind of trick.
“You make this for all your victims?” she asks dryly, raising a brow.
I grin, slicing into my steak. “Only the ones I plan to keep.”
Her lips twitch. I catch it.
She picks up the fork. Eats a bite. Her lashes flutter slightly at the taste.
“You like it,” I say, smug.
“It’s good,” she mutters. “Surprisingly.”
I gesture to the whiskey tumbler in front of her. She takes a sip. I don’t stop watching her.
She eats slowly. Methodical. But I notice her toes brushing mine under the bar. Deliberate or not, the contact has me strung tight. My cock’s already half-hard just from the way she looks tonight. That shirt on her. Those legs. That mouth.
I shouldn’t want her this bad—but I do. I always fucking do.
“Didn’t know you liked to cook,” she says eventually, dabbing at her lips with the back of her hand.
I glance sideways. “I like to make things for you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Jesus.”
“What? Can’t a guy cook for the love of his life without getting shit for it?”
She almost chokes on her potatoes. “You’re unbelievable.”
