Who knew all it took was an overbearing man with a list of daily tasks and a taste for control to whip me into shape?
Terrifying. But also—kind of effective.
I just need to keep my wits about me. Stay grounded. Detached. Immune to charm and well-seasoned chicken.
That was the plan.
A solid one—until the scent hits me. Whatever he’s cooking smells illegal. My stomach makes an audible betrayal as I follow it straight into the kitchen… and promptly regret it.
He’s standing there like sin incarnate—vest clinging to his torso, grey sweatpants hanging low enough to ruin me. And the backwards cap?
Unforgivable.
How does he keep finding new ways to bemoreattractive? There should be a law.
“Sit. Dinner’s nearly done,” he says, not even glancing over his shoulder. He knows I’m here. Probably knew the second I hit the stairs, too.
I drop into the nearest chair, defeated. I’ve successfully avoided him all day by simply not touching an appliance. Apparently, survival and emotional distance are best maintained through culinary abstinence.
He flips something in the pan, then—without pause—casually drops, “I’ve got to head out with Talia tonight. Scouting potential markers for the strike. Should only be a couple hours.”
I nod, even though he’s not looking.
“You’re good to stick to the routine. I’ll keep eyes on the cameras remotely. Panic button’s under my desk if anything goes sideways.”
Well. That’s comforting.
Still, maybe a quiet evening alone will do me some good. Maybe it will allow my hormones to cool off before I end up doing something stupid.
Again.
As he plates up dinner, Cameron glances my way—eyes distant, jaw working like he’s choosing his next words with care. But I already know what’s coming.
“I still need to know about your uncle,” he says, voice steady, too calm. “If you’re going to wander my house crying in the middle of the night, I deserve to know what he did.”
Straight to the point.
Of course he’s not letting it go.
Nothing says ‘pity me’ like a girl with trauma stamped on her skin. A girl who let her uncle use her like she was disposable.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, but it barely passes as a lie. He freezes mid-motion, then looks up at me like I’ve just insulted his intelligence.
“Nell.” His voice sharpens. “Iwillfind out. One way or another. Better it comes from you.”
Damn him and his tactical genius. I thought I was clever—traced his identity like a pro, cracked open his secrets—but clearly, I’m the amateur here. One foot behind, as always.
I exhale, slow and sharp, like it might take the pressure with it.
“There’s not a lot to say.” I keep my voice breezy, like I’m giving him the weather report. “My mom left me with my uncle a lot. He made the most of those opportunities. Nights. Days. Whenever no one else was around.” I force a dry smile. “Classic tale. Fucked-up family edition.”
I’m trying to keep it light—to hold this whole thing at arm’s length—but his eyes don’t budge. There’s nothing light in them. Only fury melting those chocolaty molten pools.
And for once, it’s not directed at me.
“What did your parents have to say about it?”
“Ha.” I try to smother the laugh before it escapes, but it bubbles out anyway—sharp and bitter. He really has no idea how deep this rabbit hole goes.
