Page 26 of They Call Me Wicked

“You just don’t get it!” I snark back, too busy with my new babies to put any real heat behind it.

“You can’t keep them,” Nic states as he decides to drop an iceberg over my head at that exact moment, none of the usual heat or desire flooding my body at the sound of his accent. And that says a lot.

“The fuck I can’t!”

“They’re evidence, Izabella!” Nope, there’s the heat. When he says my name. That’s odd.

“Don’t call me that! You have no right. And I don’t care what you say, they’re mine and I’m keeping them!”

“Are you seriously going to keep something your stalker literally broke into your house to give you?” His voice rises in anger, his accent growing thicker as he loses his cool.

“Uh, yeah? Why shouldn’t I?” Like, seriously. I don’t see what the big deal is. They’re just sunglasses. It’s not like I’m supporting the murderous bastard by keeping them. “Kai, you agree with me, right?”

“Umm, I don’t know…” His aura flickers with uncertainty and discomfort at being put on the spot, and I feel Nic’s glare flipping between us both, his breathing growing heavier.

“Ezra?” I turn once more to the honest man, preparing myself to hand the sunglasses over if he says I should. Why do I feel like that, though? Why do I trust him to be the voice of reason?

“Keep them. It doesn’t matter.” His aura doesn’t even flicker as he turns back to the stove, his part in all of this now over.

“Well, it’s settled then! I keep the sunglasses and you,” I round back on Nic, poking my finger into his chest, “keep your mouth shut! Conversation over!”

“I’m calling Richards!” Nic growls out before stomping his way out of the room.

“Yeah, go tell dad, you fucking snitch!” I yell at his retreating form before claws dig into my legs and manic squeaks sound off in my ear. “No, not you, Snitch. I’m sorry, baby!”

I scratch at his head, eliciting loud purrs of contentment from his chubby form before turning back to the island as he climbs to my shoulder. “So, what are the pictures of?” I try to sound blasé and unaffected, but inside, my heart rate shoots through the roof and my palms become sweaty.

“Here. Eat first,” Ezra commands, taking me so much by surprise that I dumbly find a chair at the kitchen island with my mouth hanging open the entire time.

A plate slides to a stop in front of me right before a large hand grabs mine, gently turning it to face palm up, my skin tingling from the contact. I’m so wrapped up in the feeling that Ezra’s touch is pulling from me, that I almost miss the piece of metal that I know is a fork as he places it in my grip. When his touch leaves, I find myself missing it. Just his hand on mine made me feel…cherished? Not sure that’s the right word, but there it is.

Snitch leaves my shoulders, choosing to go back to where he was enjoying his own food before I came into the kitchen. I hesitantly stab at my plate, not really knowing what the fork is grabbing, or whether it will even grab anything, but when I feel like I got something, I bring it to my mouth and stick my tongue out.

A burst of sweet blueberry syrup meets my taste buds and I groan. Holy fucking shit, that is delicious. Ignoring the weird groans and flare of arousal from Kai’s direction, I dig in. Warm, sweet, and fluffy bits of pancake covered in blueberry syrup are shoveled into my gullet like I’m just as animalistic as Gizmo and Snitch, moaning the entire way. And the best part is that I don’t even have to cut the damn thing or struggle to tear off bites, because Ezra actually cut it for me. And honestly? I don’t know how that makes me feel.

“Holy fuck, these are good! Did you make this from scratch?” I somehow manage to say between bites, curiosity getting the better of me.

“Yes,” Ezra states simply before moving in front of me. His hand once more grabs mine, avoiding the one still trying to shovel pancake in my mouth, and he places something delightfully warm and greasy on my pointer finger, allowing me to pinch it with my thumb.

“Bacon!” I swallow the pancake as quickly as I can and shove the entire strip into my mouth. Salty, delicious bacon–that he even cooked to my preference somehow–just barely crunchy and not at all burned. “Ohmygorsh, issogood!” My words have become unintelligible, the hazard of choking looming over my idiot self like the goddamn grim reaper. But even if I did choke to death on a piece of bacon…well, that’s just a brilliant way to go. Like the perfect way. In fact, that’sexactlyhow I want to go.

On my deathbed, choking on this perfectly cooked piece of heaven.

“Will you marry me?” I finally ask as I clear my plate, strongly debating whether I should lick it clean or not.

Ezra simply grunts in response, not offering me a single word, but Kai cracks the fuck up, his loud raucous laughter filling the room. “Is that all it takes to lock you down, Wicked? You know, I can cook a mean pot of spaghetti. Will you marry me?”

“If you’re talking about boiling boxed noodles and adding ground beef to a jar of Prego, that’s not fucking cooking,” I tease, with a large grin on my face.

“That hurts. If it’s food that’s heated in any way, it’s cooking!”

“If that were true, me microwaving my frozen meals would be cooking and we all know it’s not!”

“Eww, you eat frozen meals?” He makes an exaggerated gagging sound before reaching around and grabbing my plate.

“Hey! It’s not easy to cook blind! Most of the time I just order takeout, anyways.” I shrug my shoulders, the flash of sympathy in his aura setting my cheeks aflame. I don’t know if it’s anger or embarrassment, but I don’t like it. “Anyways! What are on those pictures?”

“They’re all of you. At work, at the store. At the bowling alley getting your titties stomped in. At the crime scene when you first saw his handy work. There are loads,” Kai informs me. Even though he tries to spin it with humor, I sense the looming specter of agitation he’s trying to cover up.

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