Page 116 of Deadfall

“Don’t mind him—” Seven set a plate of food down in front of me. “I hope you like quesadillas. They are my specialty. Okay, between you and me, quesadillas are one of the only things I know how to make, but whatever.”

What was in front of me was not just a simple quesadilla. It was smothered in cheese, inside and out, grilled to perfection and juicy with meat grease. There were two perfect dollops of sour cream and salsa on the side. Where he got all the ingredients from, I had no idea, but my mouth watered just looking at it. My stomach growled loudly, and Seven’s grin grew wider.

“I know it’s not packaged so you’ll just have to trust me that I didn’t drug it,” Seven said dryly. “If you want me to take a bite first, let me know.”

He winked and moved back to the kitchen where he started on a second one. I was too hungry to debate much with myself, so I said fuck it and took a bite. The flavor exploded across my tongue and I had to bite back the undignified moan that threatened. I must have made a face though because Seven chuckled.

“Good?”

I nodded and focused on eating. He finished cooking two more quesadillas and brought one over to eat with me at the table. The silence was surprisingly comfortable. It took all of my will power not to lick the plate when I was done.

The shower switched off and the bathroom door opened. Steam wafted into the room along with the spicy scent of male body wash. I glanced over my shoulder and—holy fucking hell—Griffin was shirtless, sweats slung low on his hips. Water droplets trailed down the indents of his abs, and I forgot how to breathe.

Jesus fucking christ.

My eyes slid up his body to clash with his scowling face. He held a wadded up bandage to his shoulder wound that bled gently after a thorough wash. I quickly looked away but it was too late. Seven smirked from across the table and took my empty plate with his own back to the sink.

“He’s easy on the eyes, isn’t he?” He winked.

I was not answering that.

Griffin came over with a small med kit and knelt at the base of my chair.

“Let me see those puncture wounds,” he said.

“Shouldn’t you deal with that?” I jerked my head at his own injury.

Griffin simply gestured for my hand and ignored my comment. I lay my hand on the table and he carefully cleaned both the thorn wounds and the cut from the statue. I tried to ignore my heart as it pounded in my chest at his proximity. He wrapped up my hand, his fingers deft and efficient.

Seven disappeared into the bathroom and the awkwardness settled over both of us. I tried not to stare at his naked chest, but it was hard not to. Thankfully, after checking a cut on my face, he moved back to the other chair.

“That needs stitches,” I grumbled.

Griffin looked down at the wound and pulled the medical kit closer to him. He fiddled with the suture supplies and began the awkward process of stitching up an area he could barely see. I sighed and stood up. I perched on the table in between his legs and grabbed the needle from him.

“Let me do it,” I grumbled.

“I can do it,” he insisted.

I batted his hand away and scowled at him. “It would be really irritating to watch you fumble through this.”

“Then don’t watch,” he growled. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

“Just accept my help.”

“That’s good advice, maybe you should follow it,” Griffin said, his words dripping in sarcasm.

I scowled at him and put my hands on his shoulder anyway. That was a mistake. Fire shot through my hands like I’d just touched a live coal.

We both froze.

His body stiffened, muscles hard as though he was afraid one wrong twitch would startle me. I dug the needle into his skin—no reaction. I was hyper aware of every small movement, and the rise and fall of his chest. I dug the needle in again—harder.

“Is that necessary?” He grumbled.

“So you can feel it.”

He grabbed my wrist until I looked at him. “Don’t push me,” he said, his voice strained.