Page 57 of Chasing Kit

He hesitated, and I realized no one had probably ever asked him what he wanted. Not in any way that counted.

He finally said, “No. But I liked the idea of doing something ordinary.”

I tried to imagine Warrick Briggs, former SEAL and professional killer, slinging breakfast burritos to hungover office workers, and almost laughed. But I didn’t. Because the way he said “ordinary” sounded so small, like a wish he was sure would never come true.

I slid off the counter and sat at the butcher-block table, which was old and scored with knife marks. “Are you sure you don’t want to try and talk to your mom?” I asked. “From the pictures, you guys seemed . . . I don’t know. Like you actually liked each other.” It was more than I could say about my mom. She cared a lot about money and which man could give it to her.

He braced his hands on the edge of the sink, head bowed. “She tried to call after I got back. I ignored it.” He wiped his hands on a towel, more forceful than necessary. “Last time she called, I blocked her number.”

I held back a gasp of surprise. My heart ached for him. I couldn’t even begin to understand how he felt. The silence sucked all the heat out of the room. I wanted to ask why, but I already knew. He did it because he couldn’t stand the idea of letting her see him like this. He did it to protect her, or him, or both. He did it because he blamed himself for Eric’s death. The textbooks called it survivor’s syndrome, but it was really remorse. Survivor’s guilt.

I swallowed hard. “If it makes you feel better, I barely talk to my mom. She’s somewhere in London with her new boyfriend. Dad probably told you. Maybe.”

He nodded, but the tension didn’t leave his shoulders.

The timer on the stove beeped. War moved to drain the pasta, and I tried not to find him cooking so hot. But it was difficult. I never expected quiet domesticity from him and I found I liked it.

He portioned out two bowls, then set them on the table along with a little tub of preshredded parmesan. The smell was unreal. I’d never tasted anything homemade that wasn’t prepared by a restaurant or a paid cook or Colt’s husband, Quinn. I realized, suddenly, that my hands were shaking again. It was stupid, but I felt like I needed to say something to break the mood.

We moved to sit down, and he chose the seat closest to me, which had my heart flipping wildly. Was I lame? I didn’t give a shit. I loved having him beside me.

“So,” I said, twirling the spaghetti. “Was this afternoon the first time you watched TV with someone in here?”

He thought about it. “I don’t invite people over.”

“Not even Nitro?”

“Especially not Nitro.” He chewed and made a humming sound of approval when he swallowed. “He’d eat the plate, then ask to crash here for a week because his latest girlfriend decided she wants something serious and he doesn’t. Then, he’ll break up with her and move on to the next one. He doesn’t stay with them for long. Always finds a reason to leave.”

I snorted, nearly choking on the bite. “And you, the legendary War, can’t say no to a houseguest?”

He gave me a sideways look, and this time the smile was more obvious. “I’m not legendary.”

We ate in silence for a while, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the thump of the neighbor’s washer against the wall. I watched the way War ate with careful bites, like he was rationing his own enjoyment. I wondered how long would it take for him to believe he deserved a nice meal or a slow evening or a second serving?

I finished my bowl too quickly, then found myself staring at the streaks of red left on the rim, thinking about blood. About the line I’d crossed. About Francesca and the shock in her dead eyes.

I set my fork down. “I’m not sorry I killed her,” I said, all at once. “Francesca.”

War didn’t flinch. “You shouldn’t be.”

“She was going to kill Sky,” I said quietly, almost pleading. “I didn’t want to⁠—”

“She tried to murder your brother. You did what you had to do.”

I nodded, but the weight didn’t lift. “Do you think I’m like . . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Do I think you’re like Derek?” War held my gaze, eyes flinty and clear. “No. Never.”

I tried to believe him. I did. But the thought kept crawling back. Maybe all this violence was genetic and I was built for it after all. “You sound pretty sure.”

He shrugged, but his eyes softened. “I am.”

I must’ve looked a little pathetic because he reached over and put a hand on my wrist, thumb pressing gently over my pulse. The touch was grounding, warm and solid, nothing tentative about it.

“If you were like Derek, you’d have let her kill Sky. Or you’d have used it as a chance to bargain for more power.” His mouth twisted. “You’re nothing like him.”

My vision blurred a little at the edges. I let the words sink in, the way the garlic and tomatoes had soaked into the pasta. I felt raw, stripped down to nothing, but also okay.