Page 14 of One Secret

So not a lion… Perhaps a wolf?

What does that make me, then? I wonder, annoyed. A rabbit caught in his sights?

Fuck that.

I've spent the entirety of our acquaintance working to be anything but that.

'Cyrus?' I prompt, casting a careful glance up and down the dimly-lit hallway.

Further on, the corridor leads to only the kitchens and an external door for garbage disposal but, this close to the bar, we could be interrupted by any small-bladdered patron needing the washrooms.

Cyrus seems aware of this too. Still without answering me, he takes hold of my arm and steers us down the hall. Away from the bar.

'Hey!' I cry as heat from his fingers bleeds through my shirt and into my skin. The size of his hand on my arm has my belly uncurling and my chest warming in familiarity. Ignoring the pleasant sensation, I try to shrug free of his hold but the man has an iron grip.

Not to mention control issues.

Cyrus's habit of getting handsy when he wants to manage a situation is one I've yet to train him out of. Not that what he and I have entitles me to teach him jack-shit, of course. We're not permanent. In fact, we're even more short-lived now than we were seven weeks ago.

I've already accepted that a baby will be the fait accompli between us.

Suddenly realizing Cyrus is heading for the kitchens, I try to dig my heels in. I'm a strong woman. I was trained that way. And, even outside of the forces, I've kept up with my physique.

But so has Cyrus.

And, whilst I can take down men twice my size under the right conditions, it's a frustration of my own sex that—when paired with a male of equal power and training—it's a slam dunk in favor of testosterone. Which means I can slow him down, I can make him work for it, as he drags me toward the clattering noises of pots and pans… But I can't actually stop him.

Damn arsehole.

'You can't just—'

Cyrus punches the two-way door so hard that it swings wide and rattles on its hinges. The sounds of a busy, commercial kitchen hit us flush in the face. The rush of the air filters, the hiss of sizzling food, the beep of ovens, the bubble of boiling pans. Heat is a blanket folding thickly over our skin and sucking the air right out of our lungs.

'Darcy!' comes a voice of frustration.

Antonio, the head chef and an Italian down to his bones, looks at me in horror, his hands raised in the traditions of his emotive people.

'I know!' I call back, raising my free arm to show I've only brought a civilian into his kitchen under duress. 'I'm working on it!'

Cyrus ignores the both of us, just dragging me around a countertop and behind a metal rack of ceramic hotpots. Antonio, however, isn't finished and his shouts chase us around the corner:

'I heard you earlier, Darcy! I don't want you in here if you're—'

'I'm fine, Antonio!' I cut him off. The absolute last thing I need is him mentioning my quick rush for the bathrooms in front of Cyrus! 'Nothing to worry about. I'm just—ouch! Hey, watch the grabbies!'

This last statement I direct at Cyrus, who has taken both my shoulders and steered me into position behind the wall of crockpots. Hidden from the rest of the kitchen and keeping our voices below the din of dishes, furnaces, and angry waitstaff affords us a little privacy. In this shadowy corner of the kitchen, the overhead lights from the main floor break between the metal racks and throw weird, angular specks of white over Cyrus's face.

Enough light to see by, enough shadow to distort…

Which, of course, suits Cyrus down to a T.

I don't know exactly what he does for a living. Because I've never asked. Deliberately.

But it's hard to be completely ignorant of someone you're sleeping with, however irregularly. Over the last five months, I've observed enough pieces of a picture. I'm choosing not to put them together.

He does something dark and shady. That's all I care to know.

'You know you're not supposed to be in staff-only areas,' I grumble without a whole lot of conviction. I don't much care about the Hotel's rules. Only my job security.

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