They’re all acting so goddamncomfortable, basking in happy domesticity.
“The fuck is this?” I snarl, voice echoing off the stone walls as I stalk into the room like a phantom.
Wes sits up with a start, while Ford doesn’t even flinch at my sudden intrusion. He glances over at me smugly, a smirk slowly curling his lips as he simply replies, “Breakfast.”
I narrow my eyes. “Since when do we have breakfast here instead of at the Bistro?”
Wes relaxes back in his chair, lifting a steaming mug of coffee to his lips like he’s king of the fucking world. “Since we’ve got someone to make it for us,” he says, nodding toward Ava.
I turn to look her way just as she lifts a frying pan from the stove, a pair of heather gray leggings hugging her toned thighs and round ass as she carries it over to the table. Using a spatula, she scrapes what looks like scrambled rubber from the pan onto Ford’s waiting plate.
He stares down at the black goop with disgust, cautiously poking at it with the prongs of his fork. “The fuck?”
“I said I’d cook, not that I’d be good at it,” Ava quips, shrugging a shoulder and smirking.
Wes snorts a laugh while Ford folds his arms over his chest, still staring down at his plate in dismay. My lips fight to twitch up, but I quickly school my expression, frowning instead.
“Give me that,” I snap, lunging toward Ava and yanking the frying pan from her grasp. She jumps back a little, eyes wide as we lock gazes and I point to the table. “Sit.”
Without waiting for her to comply, I turn my back on the three of them, marching over to the sink and tossing the frying pan inside. It clatters as it lands, clinking against the glasses resting in the basin. Grabbing a fresh frying pan out of the cabinet, I move over to the stove and set it on the burner, adjusting the heat. A carton of eggs is already open on the counter, a mixing bowl resting beside it.
The scrape of chair legs against the floor tells me Ava’s joining the guys at the table, but I resist glancing back at them, getting to work cracking some eggs and whisking them up.
“You cook?” Ava asks incredulously.
I ignore her question, but Ford doesn’t.
“Yeah, Raf’s a great cook,” he drawls. “His mom taught him.”
The plastic whisk I’m holding nearly snaps in half as my fist tightens around it, a dozen memories flashing across my mind, sharp as glass.
Standing on a chair next to my mom so I could reach the counter.
Watching her laugh as I cracked eggs into a bowl.
Her warm hands around mine, guiding the whisk.
I force them back and focus on the task at hand, letting muscle memory take over. I add a little milk and butter to the eggs, then scramble them just right, scooping out portions onto three plates and carrying them over to the table. I try not to look at Ava as I set one down in front of her, but I can’t help it. I fucking look, her eyes locking with mine and holding my stare.
Their eyes are different. Daphne’s are bright blue, but Ava’s are a warm brown with a burst of copper around her pupils. When I look into those eyes, I can almost forget who Ava is; what she represents.
Almost.
I jerk my gaze away, stomping back over to the stove to plate up some eggs for myself.
“We’ve got something for you,” Wes tells Ava, pulling a small black box from his pocket and sliding it over to her across the table.
She eyes it warily, then reaches out to pick it up, turning the box over in her hands. “What’s this?”
“Open it,” he urges.
I watch as she carefully tips the lid back, as if she’s handling a live bomb.
“You’re to wear it at all times,” Wes informs her.
Ava just stares at the necklace resting inside the box, seemingly at a loss for words. It’s a silver chain with a diamond-encrusted crown charm– just like the one Ford inked on her skin– given to us by the Invictus when we were sworn in as Kings.
“I…” Ava whispers, brows drawing in. “Why?”
