"When I'm not living on takeout and coffee." I add garlic to oil, filling the kitchen with its aroma. "You?"
"Basic survival skills. Growing up on the streets, you learn to make meals from whatever you can find."
"How old were you? When you started working for the family?"
"Fourteen." His knife stills. "First job was collecting debts from deadbeats who thought they could hide."
"That's young."
"Kavanagh men start young." He resumes chopping. "Had to prove I belonged."
I understand the subtext. Violence. Blood. Things that would horrify normal people but shaped him into the man beside me.
"Was it hard? The first time you..." I let the question trail off.
"Killed someone?" He meets my eyes. "Easier than I expected. Scared the hell out of me how easy it was."
The honesty catches me off guard. Most people would lie, make excuses. He states it as simple fact.
"How old?" I ask.
"Sixteen. Punk tried to muscle in on our territory. Thought he could take what didn't belong to him." Eamon sets down the knife. "I showed him different."
Heat pools between my thighs at his casual mention of violence. Wrong reaction entirely, but I can't help it. This man could break someone in half without breathing hard, and he's choosing to make dinner with me instead.
We eat at my small table, conversation flowing easier than expected. He tells me about growing up in Cillian's shadow, always fighting to prove himself worthy of the family name. I share carefully edited stories about my childhood, mixing truth with fiction.
"Your father died when you were fourteen?" he asks.
"Car accident." The partial truth comes easily now. "Changed everything."
"I'm sorry."
"It taught me that nothing lasts forever. You have to take what you want while you can get it."
His eyes hold mine across the table. "Good philosophy."
After dinner, we settle on my couch to watch television. I try to keep distance between us, but he's having none of it. His arm slides around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.
"Relax," he murmurs when I stay rigid. "I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."
The suggestion sends fire racing through my veins. I force myself to settle against him, hyperaware of every point of contact. His fingers play with my hair while we watch some mindless action movie.
"Mind if I ask you something?" he says during a commercial break.
"Shoot."
"The way you fought at the warehouse. Where did you really learn that?"
I've prepared for this question, but his directness still catches me off guard. "Self-defense classes in college."
"Self-defense." He turns to face me fully, arm still around my shoulders. "You dropped a grown man twice your size with self-defense classes."
"Adrenaline makes people do crazy things."
"Does it?" His free hand finds my thigh, thumb stroking through my jeans. "What else does adrenaline make you do?"
My breath catches. "Eamon..."
