Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
The rich smell of food tickles my nostrils as I walk out of the bedroom and down the hallway full of impressionist artwork, then finally reach the living room I mildly recognize from last night.
This place is massive.
And frighteningly expensive.
I move carefully, self-conscious about touching or, worse, knocking over and breaking something. I bet I couldn’t pay for it even if I sold myself on the black market.
My bare feet falter at the doorway of the kitchen, the sight of Kane hitting me like a punch to the gut.
He stands at the stove with his back to me, his broad, muscular frame covered in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips.
The morning light filters through the window, casting a faint glow on the sharp planes of his body, highlighting the lines of his muscles.
But that’s not what steals my breath.
It’s the ink and scars.
As he turns to the side, I see a serpent coiling around his left shoulder, black and detailed, the scales gleaming in the light. Its head rests near his collarbone, mouth open as if ready to strike.
I can’t look away.
My eyes take in every detail of the tattoo. It’s all things Kane—cold, dangerous, poised.
Just beneath the serpent lie jagged, uneven scars, crisscrossing his skin like a roadmap of pain.
While I have no clue who or what put them on him, I know it must’ve been brutal.
My stomach churns at the sight as if I’ve seen a kicked puppy shivering by the side of the road. Only, in this case, I can’t pick him up and carry him to a shelter.
And Kane is by no means a puppy.
How is it possible that someone hurt him enough to cause those scars? He always seems invincible. Untouchable. He’s a hockey god and a monarch both on campus and in town. No one would dare come near him.
But they did.
And he’s been hurt to the point of being permanently marked.
More ink wraps around his other arm, intricate lines that form a raven with its wings spread wide across his shoulder, its eyes hollow and dark. Beneath the bird, a small Latin phrase I can’t quite make out curves around his ribs, disappearing into the shadows of his skin.
Everything about him is a warning.
The tattoos, the scars, the way his body moves with silent power like he’s always ready to pounce.
However, right now, he’s just a man standing in a kitchen, scrambling eggs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re up.” The low timbre of his voice carries through the room like a cool breeze.
“Yeah.” I draw a circle on my thumb.
“Sit down. Breakfast is ready.” He turns off the stove and empties the pan’s contents onto a plate with unnerving precision.
No mess in sight.
“Thanks, but I can figure out something to eat on my way home.”
He lifts his gaze, looking at me for the first time this morning.
His icy eyes linger on my baggy clothes, heavy, as if he can see beneath them. It doesn’t help that his woodsmoke scent clings to my skin, wrapping around me like invisible hands.
He walks over to the dining area with two plates and places them on the table. I catch glimpses of the raven’s wing stretching to his chest before he retrieves a plain white T-shirt from the back of a chair and slips it over his head.
Killing my view.
He motions at the chair opposite his. “Sit down, Dahlia.”
“Really, I can…”
“The food is already made. Don’t rebel just for the sake of it, and sit down.”
“I wasn’t rebelling.” I’m just not used to someone cooking for me aside from Vi.
My stomach growls.
Kane lifts a brow. “You were saying?”
I rub my nape, then slowly sit.
The table is absurdly full, and the aroma nearly makes me drool.
Plates are arranged with precision—eggs scrambled to a soft yellow, slices of toast perfectly golden, and a side of fresh fruit that seems to have been cut by a machine. A coffee pot, two high-quality porcelain cups, orange juice, and a milk jug.
There’s jelly and butter, crisp and glistening bacon, and pancakes stacked high, steam still rising off them like some kind of picture-perfect domestic fantasy.
The fact that someone like Kane can make something as normal as breakfast while being fully capable of breaking people’s arms with his bare hands is both astonishing and disturbing.
“Go on, don’t just watch in amazement. Eat.” He speaks as he cuts into his toast and eggs.
I don’t need to be told twice. I dig into the eggs and shamelessly finish most of my plate in no time. This is so good. Honestly. And I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve never had this type of full breakfast before. I’ve been lucky to have coffee and some boiled eggs or something from a convenience store on my way to work or school.