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“What’s that?” she asks, nodding toward the pan with a hint of suspicion. Her voice is soft but layered with sarcasm. She doesn’t trust me, and she shouldn’t. But there's something unusual laced in her words—a crack in her usually sharp tone.
“Breakfast,” I mutter, turning back to the stove and flipping the sad excuse for an omelet. It’s burnt on one side, undercooked on the other. A mess, like everything I try to do for her. But it’s not like I can fucking give her a knife or let her handle anything too sharp. She might hurt herself.
My girl’s unpredictable.
“Looks... great,” she lies, her tone almost convincing. I glance over my shoulder, raising a brow. She’s not even trying to hide the smirk tugging at her lips, the one she always gives me when she thinks she’s gotten the upper hand. She’s still fucking with me, still playing me, but fuck if I don’t want her to.
I’m enjoying this little game between my girl and I, way more than I should.
My pulse quickens as I plate the food and carry it to the table, setting it down in front of her. She stares at it for a long moment, and I feel my stomach twist in knots, something unfamiliar rising in me. I’m not used to caring about what someone thinks of me, especially not something as trivial as a meal, but for some reason, I care about what she’s going to say.
Something inside me actually cares about pleasing my little nightmare.
Cara picks up her fork, hesitating for a second before stabbing at the overcooked egg. She takes a bite, her face expressionless, and for a brief moment, I think I might’ve actually done something right. But then, her lips twitch, and she coughs.
“Not bad,” she says, forcing the words out, her eyes darting to mine with a flicker of amusement. “Could use a little less charcoal, though.”
I narrow my eyes, leaning against the counter as I watch her. She’s definitely fucking playing with me. I know it. But beneath the fake compliment is something softer. She didn’t need to say anything nice. She could’ve spit it out, told me it was shit, and fuck, I’d have expected it.
But she didn’t.
“Eat it,” I say, my voice low, commanding. I need her to eat something, to keep her strength up. I don’t want her passing out on me again.
She doesn’t argue. She takes another bite, this time chewing slower, her eyes never leaving mine. The tension between us thickens with every second that passes, and I feel my chest tighten. There’s this pull between us, like a rope being drawn taut, ready to snap at any moment. It’s been there since the beginning, since that first night in the café, but it’s stronger now, almost suffocating.
I need to control it. I need to controlher.
Cara’s fork clinks against the plate as she sets it down, pushing the food away slightly. Her eyes flicker up to mine, and I can see the challenge reflecting back at me. She’s testing me again, waiting to see how far she can push before I break. But that’s not the only thing her gaze reveals. There’s something else behind those pretty eyes that has my heart racing.
“You gonna watch me all day?” she asks, tilting her head slightly. Her voice is soft, almost teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something real.
“I don’t trust you,” I respond, my voice rougher than I intend.
She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “Trust? I didn’t think that was part of the deal, Rhett.”
The way she says my name, low and deliberate, sends a surge of heat through me. She knows exactly what she’s doing, how her voice affects me, and how her presence gets under my skin. But this time, there’s something different in the way she looks at me. There’s a crack in her armor, and I just don’t know if it’s genuine or just another one of her fucking games.
I step closer, my pulse quickening as I stand over her. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
She doesn’t flinch, just meets my gaze head-on, her chin tilted up in defiance. “I don’t think. Iknow.”
My breath hitches in my throat as her words wash over me, but this time, it’s not anger that rises in me. It’s something darker, something primal. I want to break her, to make hersubmit to me again and again, but I also want her to stop fucking hiding and choose me.
To want me the way I want her.
Without thinking, I reach out, my hand brushing her cheek. Her skin is warm, soft under my calloused fingers, and for a second, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into my touch, just a fraction of an inch, but enough to send a bolt of electricity through me.
“I could take you right now,” I whisper, my voice rough with need. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”
Her lips part slightly, her breathing shallow as she stares up at me, her eyes wide and uncertain. For a moment, I think she might give in. That she might finally stop fighting me. But then, a small, almost invisible smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, and I feel the doubt creep back in.
Is she playing me again?
“Maybe I’d let you,” she whispers, her voice breathy and taunting. “Maybe I want you to fuck me. Maybe I crave it.”
Her words ignite something inside me, something wild and uncontrollable. I grip her chin, tilting her head back so she’s forced to look up at me, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
“You don’t get to play with me,” I growl, my face inches from hers. “Not like this.”
