Page 60 of Drowning in Darkness

“It was unnecessary to wake you.”

There’s something in the way he says it that tells me this conversation has already reached the limit of what he’s prepared to share. He’s protecting something. Whether that’s me or himself, I’m not entirely sure. I glance down at the shirt hanging almost to my knees and then back at him. “You know, when women steal a man’s shirt, it’s generally considered a milestone in the relationship.”

“I’ll update the kidnapper handbook.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “There really is a kidnapper handbook, isn’t there?”

“There are several.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“I imagine repeatedly.”

He pushes himself to his feet, rolling one shoulder as though sleeping on solid oak has finally introduced itself to his spine. “How are the ribs?” he checks.

I realize I’m holding my right side. Too late to claim anything but the truth. “They object to my existence.”

“I’ll take that as an improvement.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re still avoiding my question.”

“I answered it.”

“You absolutely didn’t.”

“I gave you the answer I was prepared to give.”

I stare at him for a long moment. He stares back with infuriating patience, as if the world has stopped turning, and I’m not at risk of premature gray hairs. This man could outlast erosion.

“Fine,” I huff. “Keep your secrets.”

“I intend to.”

“I’ll discover them eventually.”

“I’ve factored that into my risk assessment.”

“Good. Saves me the paperwork.”

A flicker of amusement passes over his face before he turns towards the bedroom door. My stomach chooses that moment to growl loud enough to echo around the room. He pauses.

“I’ll make breakfast,” I announce before my dignity has the opportunity to intervene.

He looks back over his shoulder. “You cook?”

The confidence drains out of me, and my cheeks flush. “I...” I clear my throat. “I know what breakfast consists of.” And it involves a distinct lack of cooking, and more like pouring cereal into a bowl and then choosing which milk to splash on.

“Stephanie.”

“It’s not rocket science. It’s breakfast.”

He folds his arms. “You’re avoiding answering the question.”

I grin. “I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stephanie.”