The camera monitors across from me flickered, a soft blip of motion drawing my attention.
Ariana.
She washed her plate. Wiped the counters. Turned off the light. Then disappeared into the living room and up the stairs.
I waited for the tension to ease from my spine, but it didn’t. If anything, it twisted tighter.
Cato nudged my arm with his nose.
“Don’t start,” I muttered.
But he just stared, ears up, tail thumping against the leather cushion. Like he was telling me to stop hiding behind steel walls. Like he knew damn well the real reason I was avoiding Ariana.
It was safer this way. For her. For me. For my plan.
She was supposed to be a tool. A pawn. Leverage to make Victor Kane bleed.
But even now that Ariana’s disappearance had made headlines and Victor’s distress was front-page news, it didn’t feel as satisfying as I thought it would.
Closing the book, I dropped it onto the couch beside me and stood, slipping out of my office now that Ariana had gone up to her room for the night.
No. Notherroom. It was technicallymyroom. I was just letting her use it.
I moved silently toward the darkened kitchen and opened the refrigerator. A storage container sat on the middle shelf with a note stuck to the lid in neat handwriting.
Figured you hadn’t eaten. This is pesto pasta with chicken and tomatoes. I didn’t poison it. Feel free to check your surveillance footage for proof.
I chuckled under my breath. I could practically hear her defiant tone in my head.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from her attempt at cooking. She had chefs at home. People whose job was to indulge her whims. Granted, I’d watched as she cooked for herself the past few days. She didn’t seem completely incompetent, but it was obvious she wasn’t accustomed to having to do so. How good could this really be?
But after I heated it up and took that first bite, I couldn’t help but be surprised.
It was good.
Reallygood.
The chicken wasn’t overdone. Neither was the pasta. And the sauce had the perfect combination of pesto and parmesan. Bright. Creamy. With just the right bite of garlic. I couldn’t eat it fast enough, shoveling forkful after forkful into my mouth like I hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Cato sat patiently beside me, hoping for a few scraps. But I wasn’t going to share any of this with him.
Garlic was bad for dogs anyway.
“Do you like it?” a familiar voice cut through from behind me.
I spun around, fork halfway to my mouth. Ariana leaned against the archway, arms loosely crossed over her chest. Her hair fell in a tangle of soft waves, catching the dim kitchen light. She wore a simple hoodie and leggings, but it didn’t matter. It never did. My heart rate kicked up, my body responding to her proximity like a teenager dealing with hormones for the first time.
“I… It’s good.” I cleared my throat, forcing my expression neutral. “Thanks.”
Her lips curled slightly. “Of course.”
The silence stretched, thick and taut, as I stared at her. Silence never made me uncomfortable before. I usually relished in it. Right now, it was excruciating.
Cato gave me a gentle nudge, as if silently telling me to man up and apologize already.
Sometimes I hated how perceptive my dog was.
“You didn’t—” I began at the same time as she said, “I just wanted to…”
