Page 134 of Heimlock

He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one.”

He stops midway to the kitchen, still holding the plates. “Kyrielle, I don’t like surprises.”

I’ve learned Trinte does this, getting immediately stubborn about something that makes him even slightly uncomfortable. As far as I’ve observed, no one else is the recipient of his clear rebuffs. Everyone else gets snark or deflecting jokes.

I suppose it makes me lucky to see this version. It’s him trying to communicate a boundary without wearing a mask. While I respect that, everyone deserves a fun surprise once in a while.

“Do you trust me?”

He narrows his eyes. “Of course I trust you. But the last time I let you surprise me, it led to committing murder.”

I laugh. “I promise, no murder tonight.”

Trinte purses his lips and continues walking to the kitchen. “I’m fairly certain you would’ve said the same thing at the start of that evening as well.”

“Okay,” I relent. “I don’t plan on committing murder today.”

“Oh good; just involuntary manslaughter vibes, then?”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

He glares at me while we wash the dishes. I grin, drinking the rest of my beer. When he’s done, Trinte gives me a flat look, tossing a dish towel onto the corner. “I love you, but sometimes I worry I’ve fallen in love with a psychopath who wants pickles on her pizza and happily burns off dicks.”

“You’re sometimes worried about it?” I tease, searching for my jacket.

“I would have zero survival instincts if you didn’t worry me at least a little bit,” he retorts, watching me search for the jacket. “What are you looking for?”

“My jacket.” I sigh. “I think I left it at home when I picked things up today.”

Trinte immediately looks uncomfortable as he says, “I might have one you could use.”

“Yours would be way too big,” I point out, smiling.

His eyes slowly trail to his hallway closet. “Okay, don’t get mad, but I have one that would fit you.”

“Eww, some other woman’s jacket?” I cringe at the thought.

“Not … exactly.” He walks to the closet. I’ve never opened that door, so it’s a surprise when he reveals multiple matching black hoodies, all with tags still attached. He pulls one off a hanger and offers it. “It’s my old stash of hoodies for … night time guests.”

“Nighttime guests.” I say flatly.

He tosses the jacket, rolling his eyes. I catch it, immediately sniffing for someone else’s scent. It only smells like brand new fabric.

“Yes, Kyrielle,” he says, exasperated. “One-night stands.”

I narrow my eyes. “How many hoodies are in there?”

He quickly shuts the door, blocking me from opening it. “Enough. I’ll donate them. Don’t worry about it.”

“How many?” I ask, partially jealous, partially amused. It’s annoyingly thoughtful. He mumbles something under his breath. I cup my ear with a hand. “What?”

“Eight,” he says heatedly. “Now seven.”

Looking at him like he’s lost his mind, I ask, “I’m not slut shaming, but how many one-night stands did you have?”

“Enough.” The way he presses his lips together, I know he’s not going to expand further on the subject. It’s not like I’m unaware that he’s had sexual partners. No one gets that good with their tongue by having only a couple of dalliances.