Page 148 of His To Claim

Instead, I stood and headed toward the kitchen, needing movement. Something normal. Something that didn’t involve grief or secrets or the fact that I’d just upended my entire life.

Kane followed a minute later, pulling on his jeans as he walked, expression settling back into that familiar controlled calm he wore outside the bedroom.

I opened cabinets, pretending I was looking for something specific.

There was nothing here but olive oil, dried pasta, and a half-empty box of crackers.

My stomach growled again.

Kane leaned a shoulder against the doorway, watching me.

“You’re not actually going to cook, are you?”

I turned slowly. “In this emotional state? Absolutely not.”

“Good.”

He stepped further into the kitchen and scanned the counter once, eyes sharp, assessing like he did everything.

And then I saw it.

The takeout container.

White cardboard. Folded top. A small red logo stamped on the side. I’d barely noticed it before, buried in the recycling bin.

But now it clicked.

Rose had ordered from there.

Recently.

I crossed the room and pulled the flattened box free.

Kane’s gaze sharpened.

“What?”

“I saw this yesterday,” I said quietly. “It’s from somewhere close. I remember because I thought about how domestic it looked. Like she’d ordered dinner and eaten it on the sofa.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“She had places she went,” I murmured. “ Routines.”

I turned the box over.

An address printed neatly on the side beneath a clean, understated logo:

Maison de Verre.

Three streets over.

Kane glanced at the address, then back at me.

“You want to go?”

“Yes.”

It felt important. Not because of the food.