Page 158 of Safe Word

‘What do you want with it?’ He nodded at the plate, his voice lighter, as though determined to steer us away from the abyss we’d been skirting. ‘Jam? Or do you like your crêpes plain and sad?’

The corner of my mouth twitched despite myself. ‘Sad crêpes. Really?’

He smirked, his eyes softening as he reached for a jar of plum jam. ‘Some people are weird. I don’t judge.’ His gaze settled on mine, warm and teasing. ‘Well, not much.’

We stared at each other with our smiles melting with each intake of breath, neither knowing what to say next.

‘Are the wounds healing okay?’ I asked softly, my gaze falling to his chest.

His brows pinched as his hand moved instinctively, pressing over the square gauze visible beneath the tee, just above his abs.

‘Doing fine. Thanks for…’

I gave him a small smile.

Tearing his gaze from mine, he turned at the waist and started stacking dishes into the dishwasher as though the silence hadn’t grown horns.

Not wanting to push further, I looked around the place.

‘Your place is beautiful,’ I said, wanting to pivot the conversation entirely. I waved a hand around the open space, taking in the clean lines and the warm tones of wood and stone. The wall of windows framed a stunning view of the city. ‘It’s very… you.’

Cain angled his head, raising an eyebrow. ‘Very me?’

‘Yes,’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant as I slathered the jam over my breakfast. ‘Strong, a little too clean – like it doesn’t want anyone to know someone actually lives here.’

He barked out a laugh, leaning over the counter across from me. ‘Too clean? I’ll take that as a compliment.’

I narrowed my eyes. ‘There’s no way you’re this tidy all the time. Where’s the mess? The clutter? The dirty laundry?’ I waggled my brows for effect – and winced at the sharp sting of pain there.

He smirked, leaning in closer, his amber eyes gleaming with mischief. ‘You think I’m hiding dirty laundry somewhere?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said, not backing down, but I couldn’t rid myself of the smirk. ‘You’ve probably stuffed it all in a closet or under the bed, hoping I wouldn’t notice.’

His smirk deepened into something far more devilish. He bent closer, his voice dropping just enough to send a ripple of heat down my spine. ‘I tend to keep the dirt in the bed.’

The fork in my hand froze mid-air, my pulse skipping. My gaze darted up to meet his, and the teasing gleam in his eyes almost had me choking on my own breath.

I opened my mouth to retort, but he straightened suddenly, his demeanour sobering in an instant, as if catching himself. What started as playfulness took on an edge.

He leaned his hip against the counter, his arms crossing casually over his chest.

‘Speaking of messes,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I’ve been doing research for a new book.’

‘What about?’ I asked, grateful for the reprieve as I focused – too hard – on spreading the jam.

‘Vikings. The darker traditions – blood oaths, vengeance, forbidden love.’

His voice lowered, eyes unreadable.

‘Sounds intense,’ I said. ‘Raw, and oddly familiar.’

‘I was hoping to co-write it. Maybe you’d want to help.’

‘You know,’ I said, my lips quirking into a grin, ‘for someone who can barely flip a crêpe, you’re surprisingly creative.’

His laugh was low, a soft thunder that warmed the space a bit. ‘What can I say? I have layers.’

‘Tell me more,’ I said, deciding not to entirely scratch it off the table.