Page 56 of Beneath the Hood

Her cheeks bloom pink and I lean in, resting my elbows on the table. “Now give me the real one.”

Slowly, the mask drops, a dark melancholy filling up her eyes. Her entire body slouches, like she’s finally giving herself permission to show the weight of perfection that rests on her shoulders.

She swallows. “Lonely.”

I’m not surprised at her answer. My gut sours as I try to imagine a childhood through her eyes. With butlers and nannies and no parents in sight. With bodyguards, and the bitter truth of why they’re needed.

My mom and I may not have had much, but we always had each other, and I’m thankful as hell to know that’s what really counts.

“And what’s it like now?” I ask.

She glances up at me. “Rightnow?”

I nod. “Right now.”

Her eyes drill through mine, making my stomach flip and my chest fill with...something.

“Like you’re the only person who’s ever given a damn.”

She always does this—makes me feel like I’m the most important person in her world. My heart stammers, wanting to jump over the table and hold her under my palms, show her all the ways I care. Words don’t seem like they’d be enough.

Before I can say anything else, we’re interrupted by Eric, thechef, rolling a cart into the room and placing two plates in front of us.

My nose flares at the scent, mouth watering as I take in the panko-crusted baked salmon, a creamy sauce drizzling off the asparagus that sits to the side.

“Damn, Eric. This looks and smells incredible. You free to come cook for me too?” I joke.

He smiles and tips his head, his gray hair flopping on his forehead, but he doesn’t answer, just quietly leaves the room.

“Does he not speak?” I ask Blakely.

She giggles, picking up her fork and twirling it. “You may not realize this about yourself, Jackson, but you have a tendency to make people shy.”

Grinning, amusement sneaks through me. “Oh yeah? Do I makeyoushy, princess?”

She grins, her eyes dropping back to her plate, bouncing from one item to the next. “Sometimes.”

I follow her gaze, noticing how different our meals are.

Did he prepare hers differently?

My brows draw in as I take a closer look. Her portions are definitely smaller, which isn’t a big deal considering she’s half my size. But her salmon looks plain—no panko crusting, and her asparagus is dry.

I’m about to ask her why she isn’t eating the same thing, but before I even open my mouth, there’s a visible shift. I can see it in the way her body tightens, a hazy sheen slipping over her amber gaze. And I can sense it, a tense vibration that thins the air, making everything feel on edge. She drops her fists into her lap and I lean back, sneaking a glance under the table, a lead weight dropping in my gut when I do.

She’s clenching and unclenching.

One. Two. Three.

My stomach somersaults while my brain races through every second we’ve had, wondering how many other signs I’ve missed. Wondering how in the hell I didn’t realize, until this moment, that food was one of her triggers.

“I’ll just... one sec.” She holds up a finger, a pained smile on her face as she jumps from her chair and races out of the room.

She must not go far because even though she’s speaking in a hushed tone, I hear her muffled voice filtering through the hall. “Eric, I just want to double-check, you cooked mine without butter or oil, right?”

“Yes, of course, Miss Donahue. I steamed it just the way you like.”

“Okay.” She pauses. “Okay... I’m just making sure, because I had this thought that maybe you cooked ours together, and Ican’thave any butter or oil.”

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