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I had to admit, this was definitely a step up from a dusty, moldy old motel. There were four front-facing windows, two on each floor, and they all had dark shutters framing them. The front door had a small portico awning and a single light that glowed a dull yellow, little bugs swirling and floating around it. Two other cars sat in the long driveway, a pickup truck and another SUV.

My eyes flitted back to the house. It was nice. The type of house I’d always wanted to live in, back when I’d thought maybe something like that was possible for me.

I lifted my gaze and quietly took in the cloudless, moonless night sky.

There were so many stars out here. More than I would ever be able to count, if that was my thing.

I jumped when Court placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me forward. “Come on. Let's go get you something to eat.”

I brushed at his hands, but he didn’t let go. “I think I can find the door, you don't have to steer me,” I grumbled.

Surprisingly, he let go. A chill slipped across my shoulders as I picked up my feet and made my way to the front door. It was unlocked, and I didn’t wait for Court, but knew he was there when I heard the wooden steps groan behind me.

The smell of food hit me first, and as I stepped inside, there was also a faint hint of spices, like cinnamon or nutmeg. A staircase sat three feet in front of the door, framing a hallway that let out into a few different rooms with open doorways. At the end of the hall was the kitchen, lit brightly.

“Kitchen’s straight ahead,” said Court. He set his hand on my lower back, but this time, I didn’t try to swat him away.

I marched down the hall to the kitchen, fully prepared to snag one of the kitchen knives because I was woefully without protection. I stopped when I saw Brooks sitting at a white wooden table off to the left. He had a plate in front of him, full of chicken and rice and some kind of vegetable, and he set down his fork when he saw me.

“Hey,” I said. This was so weird. I wasn’t used to things like this, whatever this was. Living with perfect strangers. Sure, I was surrounded by strangers at all the motels I’d stayed at, but I didn’t share communal space with them. I wasn’t working with them. I didn’t feel any kind of obligation to get to know them or be respectful.

Court crowded me from behind—I’d briefly forgotten he was there—and then nudged me toward the counter with a hand on my lower back.

“There's some chicken and rice if you want. There's also soup in the cupboard I can heat up for you. Not sure how you feel about vegetables, but⁠—”

“There aren’t anymore vegetables,” Brooks cut in with an apologetic tone.

“I won’t find out tonight,” Court finished.

“It’s fine,” I said. I didn’t give a shit about whether or not I got some vegetables tonight. Chicken and rice sounded amazing. “Who made all this?”

“Vincent,” Brooks said.

I walked over to the tray of chicken sitting on the stove next to a pot of rice. Court handed me a plate and a fork, but no knife.

A plastic fork.

I looked at the fork he’d handed me, glanced over at the silver metal fork Brooks was using, then raised my gaze to Court’s. “What the hell is this?” I asked in disbelief.

“It’s me protecting myself,” he replied. One of his eyebrows arched up, as if he was daring me to argue with him.

I stabbed a piece of chicken with the stupid plastic fork, hoping the tines would snap off and fly into his eyes. It was sturdier than it looked and sank into the meat without breaking. With a sigh, I scooped some rice out of the pot and dumped it next to the chicken, and as I was moving to the table, Brooks stood and sidled past me to the sink.

I sat in the chair he’d occupied three seconds ago and started eating—just the rice, because I had nothing to cut my chicken with. Court slid in beside me a few moments later with a full plate of his own.

And a metal fork. With a fucking steak knife.

Asshole.

I gestured at my food. “How am I supposed to eat my chicken if I can’t cut it?”

“I can cut it for you.”

I didn’t want him cutting my food like I was a child, but I also didn’t know how to eat a whole chicken breast without a real fork, short of picking it up with my hands, so I pushed my plate over to him with a sigh.

He seemed visibly pleased that I’d given in so easily, and I watched as he cut my chicken into tiny little perfect pieces. When he was done, he set it gently back in front of me.

He was always so annoyingly calm. Frustratingly amused by me, for whatever reason. And those fucking eyes were always on me. They made me itch beneath my clothes, made everything prickle, like all my limbs had fallen asleep. It was uncomfortable and heated my skin in a way that made me want to claw it off.