Page 14 of Pleasure & Prey: Vol. 2

It really is too bad about the murderer part of him. That’s not something I can get past, for my own safety if not for anyone else’s, and I don’t see how I could ever trust that he isn’t about to chop me up the moment he gets bored.

The water temperature changes, some of the heat I’m absorbing into my skin lessening, and I blink when I realize it’s definitely been almost ten minutes. Hadn’t he said dinner was going to be ready in ten?

Though at this point, I’m expecting chopped up people, freshly dressed deer, raw meat, or something else that will horrify me beyond belief. The image sets nausea rolling in my stomach.

But I don’t have much of a choice. I sigh as I get to my feet and shampoo my hair quickly, just to get the sweat and dirt out of it. To save time, I don’t use his conditioner. Even though I know I’ll have to find some way to brush it out later when my hair maliciously curls and knots up after it’s been wet; but that’s a problem for another hour, if not another day.

Once that’s done I mess with the knobs, narrowly missing dousing myself in freezing water before I turn the shower off and ring out my hair, eyes on the fluffy towels and my bloody, stained clothes.

I really don’t want to put them back on. Hell, I’d give anything to have a change of clothes with me, or be able to wash these. But I doubt my captor is about to oh so kindly offer me access to his washing machine or let me borrow something from him.

I don’t even know if I could put on something of his and not be horrified about what might have been on it before.

Finally, when I can’t procrastinate anymore and the fear in my chest has frozen to an ice cube, I shrug on my dirty clothes, gritting my teeth at the feel of them, and stand in front of the mirror.

One way or another, I have to get this over with. My fingers drum on the vanity for a few moments before I finally tear myself away from it, going to the door and cracking it open like he might be there, waiting outside with a chainsaw.

He isn’t. Obviously. But I still tiptoe down the stairs, heading to the kitchen where a bunch of really delicious smells suddenly remind me that I haven’t eaten in probably at least a day and a half. My stomach clenches at the thought, and I fight not to put my hand against it in an effort to stop it from gnawing itself to bits at the smell of food.

Real food. Not the Lunchables stacked sky high in my fridge or the popcorn I’m guilty of microwaving and pouring salt and butter over at three am.

I don’t realize I’m staring at the kitchen island and its array of food until Jed slides into a seat on the opposite side of it, eyes on mine and wary as hell.

As if I’m the unknown risk factor here and not him. While I watch him, Jed slowly jabs a fork into whatever he’s eating that looks suspiciously like Chicken Alfredo with broccoli, and takes a bite; chewing carefully, like the sound of it might chase me away.

“You didn’t give me any allergies or dislikes,” he points out, like I’m somehow accusing him of something bad. “And I figured you had to be hungry. Since you haven’t eaten since before the preserve, right?” He gestures with his fork to another plate, and my eyes fall on the already made up large, shallow bowl. It’s filled with pasta, strips of grilled chicken, broccoli, and covered in a white sauce that sends tendrils of garlic-filled deliciousness my way to pull me in like a cartoon pie.

When my stomach growls again, I grip my shirt, still standing there unsure as my eyes flick back up to his.

“And…if I were going to kill you, I wouldn’t go to the trouble of feeding you,” he mumbles under his breath, stabbing another piece of chicken.

He…has a point. Unfortunately. Gingerly, I step forward to sit across from him, in front of the plate and the glass that’s filled with ice water. Up close, the food smells impossibly good, and I’m half-sure my stomach is going to riot if I don’t eat something now.

“Thank you,” I whisper, unable to stop myself. He did cook for me, after all. It would be rude as hell to not thank him for it. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see his mouth twitch in a smile, but he chases it away before I can tell for sure. “This smells better than anything I’ve ever thrown in the microwave.” I don’t know why I’m trying to joke or lighten the mood. Probably a survival tactic.

“I would hope so,” he replies, eyes on his food as he spins pasta around his fork. “Since this didn’t come out of a box.”

I don’t answer him this time. Instead, I take a few small, separate bites of food. First the chicken, then the broccoli, and finally the noodles that are so much better than any box I’ve bought. Though, admittedly, that could be my cooking of them, versus anything wrong with boxed noodles.

“Clearly I’m shopping in the wrong section of the grocery store,” I mutter, unable to not appreciate how good the sauce tastes on everything.

“Why’s that?” He chances a glance up at me, one brow raised as he appraises the huge bite of noodles and chicken that’s halfway to my mouth. I see it again—that small twitch of a grin on his lips—before it’s gone again.

“Because no box of noodles or any sauce I’ve bought has ever tasted this good.” I slam the whole thing into my mouth without politeness, and if this were any other situation, I would moan dramatically at how good it tastes.

Jed, for his part, finally grins, though he ducks his head and drops the edge of his fork down to his plate, where it sinks into noodles. “It’s not that good,” he argues, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think he was trying to be modest. “But uh, it’s not out of a box or a jar.”

“You’re not seriously about to tell me you made this.” The words are out before I can stop them. “Like, made this. From scratch.”

He looks up at me again, searching my face, then gestures over his shoulder to the counter where I see a few different pots and pans, and a weird, square-like appliance with a handle on the side. “It’s not that hard,” he assures me, before I can say a word. “Pasta doesn’t take long to make. And I could make Alfredo sauce in my sleep. It’s not…” He looks around again, as if he doesn’t know what to say. “It’s not a big deal, Saylor. Promise.”

I can’t answer. How can I, when my mind is blown at the idea of this man, this murderer, just casually cooking me dinner completely from scratch like he’s trying to impress me or…or….

Like this is a date.

The thought makes my fingers go numb, but I clench my fork harder and wind noodles around it again. “My meals consist of microwavable dinners, popcorn, and Lunchables,” I inform him at last, finding it a bit easier to meet his gaze this time when his eyes flick up to catch mine.

God, how are they so blue?