Page 127 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I jam my thumb against the brew button harder than necessary. The machine grinds to life.

“I want breakfast.” I don’t turn around.

“Would you like me to cook for you?”

I turn. His expression is perfectly blank—the kind of polite detachment you’d use with a stranger—but his eyes give him away. They always do. Dark and too knowing, even now.

“Yes.”

“Alright,” he answers.

“That’s it?”

His brow furrows slightly. “What would you prefer I say?”

I want him to argue. I want him to remind me that last night I told him not to feed me, not to fuss, to leave me the hell alone. I want a fight I can win.

“I want eggs,” I say.

“Okay… You will have to give me more than that.”

“Scrambled eggs.”

“American-style or œufs brouillés?”

“American,” I grumble.

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, quickly suppressed when I glare. He turns without another word and crosses to the refrigerator.

I take a seat at the island and watch him move around his own kitchen on my command. He pulls eggs from the fridge, selects a pan, and lights the burner with a quiet click. The butter sizzles when it hits the warm metal. He cracks the eggs one-handed without looking, his focus entirely on the task I gave him.

There is a small, petty satisfaction in seeing Camille move through the kitchen because I told him to. I do not thank him. I do not offer to help. And when he places the plate in front of me, I make him go back for salt.

Camille makes his own breakfast afterward and sits at the far end of the island rather than beside me. He does not ask whether mine is good.

The silence becomes almost unbearable as I finish eating.

“That was good. Thank you,” I say quietly.

His eyes lift, and I regret complimenting him. Not because he looks smug or anything, because he doesn’t.

He simply seems pleased that I liked them.

Asshole.

The rest of the morning unfolds in much of the same way. After I find yesterday’s clothes wadded into a sodden heap on the bathroom tile, I decide on a whim that Camille can handle my laundry today.

There’s no practical reason he should. I know perfectly well how to use the washing machine. Still, I wander into his study, where he’s bent over a stack of papers.

“I have laundry,” I announce, holding my arms out for emphasis, as if the crumpled T-shirt and jeans in my hand might otherwise go unnoticed.

He glances up, expression neutral. “Okay?”

“I want you to do it,” I tell him.

He pauses, pen poised above paper. “Alright.” He abandons what he’s doing and stands up. “Is it just what you’re holding?”

I stare at him, incredulous. “You’re seriously just going to do my laundry?”