Page 20 of Pretty Wicked Secrets

Which means he was watching me thrash around on the bed this morning through the security system.

I lift my chin defiantly. Fucking perv.

“I don’t care about my stitches,” I grit out, ignoring how the bullet wound he closed up for me aches in response to his question. Maybe I did pop a few. “I care about Chloe. You guysareout there looking for her, right?”

His hands fly with practiced precision over the colorful jumble of vegetables he laid out, reducing them to perfect little cubes that he tosses into a prep bowl.

“I’ll check them after you eat,” he says without looking up.

“You’ll check… what? Forget my fucking stitches! Just tell me what’s going on with my sister!”

He turns away, pulling a flat pan out of a cupboard and placing it on the stove. “My stitches were very precise, but if you insist on disrupting them, you might end up with a scar.”

“I. Don’t. Care,” I grit out as he gets out another cutting board and quickly slices up a cooked chicken breast. “What is it you guys want Chloe for?”

He doesn’t answer, just pulls a carton of eggs out of the fridge, then opens another cupboard and plucks out a bunch of little spice jars.

I look away, trying to hold on to anger in the face of the overwhelming hopelessness that threatens to overtake me.

When I first came to the Reapers, it was a last ditch, desperate effort to save my sister. But that’s the problem with “last ditch.” Now that I’ve used up that option, there’s nowhere else to turn.

Especially when I’m not even sure what the Reapers want with her.

Whatever Logan’s doing at the stove starts to smell amazing. I try to ignore it, but I can’t stop my mouth from watering. When he finally brings me a plate of colorful stir fry, my stomach doesn’t just growl again, it practically attacks him.

I refuse to look at Logan’s face to see if he finds that as amusing as he did the first time. If he’s going to ignore my questions about Chloe, I can damn well ignore him right back.

What I can’t ignore is the loaded fork he brings toward my face.

I jerk back, almost tumbling off the stool.

“Oh, fuck no,” I bite out, glaring up at him.

He raises an eyebrow, maddeningly calm. “You need to eat.”

“Then I’ll eat, but no way in hell am I going to sit here and have you feed me like a fucking child.” I hold out my cuffed wrists to him again. “I can do it myself.”

He does that head-cocked-to-the-side thing again that makes me feel like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve.

“I already told you, I’m not taking those off.”

I glare at him, but it has no effect whatsoever.

“Fine,” I say, awkwardly grabbing the fork out of his hand and sending some of the stir fry flying over the countertop. “I still don’t need your help.”

He frowns down at the scattered food, then turns and retrieves a bottle of spray cleaner and a cloth from under the sink.

I ignore him as he cleans up the mess I just made, trying to work out how to actually feed myself without adding to it.

It turns out to be harder than I expected. It’s awkward as hell to scoop the unfairly delicious food onto the fork with my hands locked together like this, and even when I do, getting it to my mouth without half the forkful falling off on the way is almost impossible.

“Goddammit,” I finally mutter, letting the fork fall from my grip with a clatter. “Fine. Go for it. Fucking humiliate me, Logan.”

He stares at me in silence for a moment, then cleans up the newest mess I’ve made with quick, efficient strokes before plucking the fallen fork from where it’s landed and loading it with food.

I stare at him right back.

I tell myself it’s to make a point, but the problem is I’m not sure what that point actually is. What I am sure of is that the whole thing suddenly feels oddly… intimate.

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