Page 33 of Twisted Steel

“Subtle,” I mutter.

Steel leans just close enough for his voice to reach my ear.“I can be less subtle.”

Heat trips down my spine.

Absolutely.Fucking.Not.

My body needs to calm down, preferably with medication.

Mama M leads me into the kitchen, which is warm and bright and somehow feels like a different planet.She points to a chair.

“Sit.”

“Is everyone here allergic to saying please?”

“Yes,” Steel and Mama M say together.

I sit, and Mama M sets a plate in front of me.Eggs.Toast.Bacon.Something fried and probably illegal in three states.

“It’s 4:00 in the morning,” I say.

“And you look like you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“She hasn’t,” Steel says.

I glare at him.“How would you know?”

“You had coffee at the station.Half a protein bar in the rig.Nothing after.”

The room goes quiet, and I stare at him.Mama M stares at him.Saint, who has materialized in the doorway like a gothic accountant, stares at him.Steel looks back at me with zero shame.

“You counted my snacks?”

“You were on shift.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s mine.”

I pick up the fork because if I don’t, I might throw it at his forehead.“I am going to need everyone in this room to understand that surveillance is not romance.”

Mama M coughs into her hand, and Saint turns away, shoulders shaking.

Steel’s eyes narrow.“Who said romance?”

The fork freezes halfway to my mouth.There it is.A word neither of us should touch.Romance.It lands in the kitchen like a lit match dropped into gasoline.

My face goes hot.“No one.”

“You did.”

“I was making a point.”

“A bad one.”

“You are the bad point.”

Mama M slaps the counter.“Eat before the two of you set my kitchen on fire.”