Page 29 of Cut Deeper

Her laughter made me smile. Usually, other people’s traits irritated me, but Anne’s quirks were different.

Chapter 15

Anne

Disrupting his equilibrium was insightful. He didn’t demand sex or become irritated by having to wait. He recognised my proposition and accepted the terms. He was mature and unperturbed. An anomaly in comparison to the men I was accustomed to.

“Can I help with anything?” he asked, removing his fingers from my waistband.

“Everything is done. You can help me set the table and get the jug out of the fridge,” I said, tapping the wooden spoon on the edge of the saucepan.

“Sure,” he said as I pointed to the cupboards that had the dishes.

“Glasses and plates are over there, I’ll grab the cutlery,” I said as he moved away from me.

I had a decent-sized kitchen, yet his presence made it look smaller. Or perhaps I wasn’t used to having anyone inside my house. That wouldn’t be a problem in his house.

“Why do you live in such a big house?” I asked.

“It’s secluded. An investment.”

Logical, but impractical for a single person to live in a six-bedroom, six-bathroom property—each to their own. Even if he did seem to be compensating for something.

It wasn’t a tiny dick, that’s for sure.

?? ?? ??

My knife sliced through the glazed carrot as I felt the heat from his gaze.

“You don’t drink at home?”

I loaded some braised lamb shank onto it and placed the fork in my mouth. His eyes dropped to my lips, and even though he was eating, the hunger remained.

“I try not to,” I said after swallowing.“It can become a habit.”

His hands paused mid-cut.

“You’ve had problems?” he asked.

“Destructive early twenties,” I replied honestly. It wasn’t something I was ashamed of—it was part of learning to have an outlet.“My art rescued me.”

He nodded slowly, though he remained cautious.

“Is that something you’ve dealt with?”

He raised his fork, delaying his answer. I waited patiently, focusing on my plate.

“My mother was an alcoholic,” he said, his voice hard, but with shame underneath.

“My mum left me with an alcoholic, drug-addicted father,” I said casually.“Shit happens.”

His brow furrowed. He didn’t like that last comment, but what was the point in dwelling on the past. It used to eat me alive—hence drinking myself into a stupor. Ironically, killing others saved me.

“How are your potatoes?” I asked, pouring myself some of the pomegranate and black cherry juice.

“Everything is perfect.”

“Don’t sound too surprised.”