Page 78 of Break Me Open
“No,” I lie.
“You’re such a bad liar,” he says cheerfully, brushing past me to the tiny wardrobe. He doesn’t bother closing the towel properly, causing me to look away, which is stupid, because I’ve already seen every inch of him. But last night was last night, and this is daylight — different rules.
“You can go next,” he says. “Before the hot water gives up. Turn the dial all the way to the left, or it screams.”
“Of course it does,” I say under my breath, grabbing my wash bag. The shower is small but hot, and I brace my palms on the tile and let the water beat into my sore muscles, my head tipped forward. It feels so good; I could stay there all day. I close my eyes and instantly see him above me, sweat-slick and flushed, his mouth open on a curse. Heat punches straight through me. “Fuck,” I say softly, and thump my head lightly against the tile. Don’t start what you can’t quietly finish, Varrik.
When I come out, scrubbed pink and feeling marginally more human, he’s in the kitchenette, barefoot, wearing joggers and one of my T-shirts. He’s already managed to get the gas stove working, and the smell of something frying hits me. Eggs, bread, all toasting in a pan. He glances over as I towel my hair dry. “Good. You didn’t drown.”
“Disappointed?” I ask.
“A little. Would’ve been a very dramatic funeral,” he says. “Tragic British soldier, dead in shower, killed by Russian plumbing.”
“You’re the worst.”
“You say that like it’s news.” He flicks a look down my body, then back to the pan. “Sit. You look like you’re going to fall over.” I sink into the chair at the minuscule table.
He moves easily in the tiny space, utterly at home. God knows how many half-legal cabins he’s stashed around this country. Watching him do something as normal as cook should be jarring, but it isn’t. It’s nice. Such a dangerous word.
“Didn’t know you could cook,” I say.
He shrugs one shoulder, then flips the eggs with an unnecessary flick of the wrist. Show-off. “I can make eggs and not die of food poisoning. It’s enough.”
“That’s more than most blokes in my unit,” I admit.
He smirks. “Congratulations. You’ve upgraded.”
He sets a mug of coffee in front of me. It’s strong and dark and exactly how I take it. “You guessed.”
“I paid attention,” he corrects. “You always put more coffee in than the others. Facial expression very serious. Like bomb disposal.”
“You’re unbelievable,” I say, huffing a quiet laugh. He slides a plate over. Eggs, toast, and something that might be sausage. It smells amazing. My stomach remembers it exists, and we eat in relative silence for a few minutes. Well, I eat. He inhales his food like someone’s going to take it away. It’s weirdly endearing. Every so often, our knees bump under the table. He doesn’t move his away, and neither do I. It feels... domestic.
That’s a problem.
If we were still in fight mode — taunts, shoves, nearly breaking each other’s noses in the name of training — then this would be simple. I know how to manage conflict. I donotknow how to manage this — a man making me breakfast like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He finishes first, drops his fork, sits back, and just looks at me. “What?” I ask around a mouthful of toast.
“You are thinking very loudly,” he says.
“I’m not thinking anything,” I lie.
He snorts. “You keep saying that, and one day I will believe you. Today is not that day.” I roll my eyes and focus on my plate, but I can still feel him watching me. It makes heat crawl up the back of my neck.
“So,” he says eventually. “We have the whole day. No one to yell at us. No duties. No idiots. What do you want to do, detka?”
‘You’ is what my treacherous brain supplies. “Dunno,” I say instead. “What do you usually do out here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes I read. Sometimes I sharpen knives. Sometimes I sleep. Very thrilling life.”
“You have books?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Caiden, I do read. I even move my lips less than you do when I do it.”
I flip him off automatically. “What kind?”
He eyes me, then nods toward the shelf by the fireplace. “Go see.”
