The scream died in her throat before it could wake the house.
Kaycee sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat. The nightmare clung to her like a second skin-the needle, the basement, the fire.
She checked the time on the bedside clock. 5:30 AM.
The room was bathed in the gray light of pre-dawn. She was safe. She was in Hunter's bed.
But the silence was terrifying. She needed to hear life.
She slid out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. She crept out into the hallway. The house was still.
She went downstairs, drawn by a faint sound from the kitchen. A rhythmic chop, chop, chop.
She peeked around the corner.
Hunter was there.
He was wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a tight white t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. And over it, ridiculously, was a dark blue apron.
He was standing at the island, chopping scallions with exact, focused movements. A pan sizzled on the stove behind him. The smell of bacon and coffee filled the air, chasing away the scent of blood from her nightmare.
Kaycee leaned against the doorframe, watching him. It was such a domestic scene, so normal, so... peaceful. It made her chest ache.
Hunter paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. He didn't turn around.
"You're staring," he said. His voice was rough with sleep.
"I didn't know you cooked," Kaycee said.
He turned then. He looked her over, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on her bare legs before snapping back to her face.
"There's a lot you don't know about me," he said. "Put some shoes on. The floor is heated, but still."
"I like being barefoot," she said, walking over to the island.
She hopped up onto one of the barstools. "What are you making?"
"Omelets. Unless you want that green juice sludge you usually drink."
"Omelet is fine. With bacon."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "You hate bacon. You say it's 'grease trapped in sadness'."
Kaycee laughed. It was a genuine, bubbling sound. "I changed my mind. Bacon is joy."
Hunter watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned back to the stove.
"Coffee is in the pot," he said.
Kaycee poured herself a mug. She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into her palms.
She watched his back muscles move as he flipped the omelets.
"Did you sleep?" she asked.
"No."
"Me neither."
He plated the food and slid a plate in front of her. The omelet was perfect, golden and fluffy. The bacon was crisp.
He didn't sit. He leaned against the counter opposite her, crossing his arms. He didn't have a plate.
"Eat," he said. "Then we need to talk."
Kaycee picked up a fork. She took a bite. It was delicious.
"Talk about what?" she asked with her mouth full.
"About how much you need."
Kaycee stopped chewing. She swallowed slowly.
"I told you-"
"Save it," Hunter interrupted. "I did the math. Aldo's hedge fund is down forty percent. He needs liquidity. You're here because he sent you to soften me up before he asks for a bailout."
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He grabbed a pen from the counter.
Scratch. Scratch. Rip.
He slid a piece of paper across the marble island.
"Twenty million," he said flatly. "That should cover his margin calls and buy you a new wardrobe. Take it. And go."
Kaycee looked at the check. The zeros were perfectly formed. His signature was sharp and aggressive.
Twenty million dollars.
In her past life, she would have taken it. She would have thrown a fit about how it wasn't enough, but she would have taken it.
She put down her fork.
