Chapter 13 I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I stepped into the kitchen, face freshly washed, teeth brushed. The decadent scent of butter, garlic, and something sinfully rich with cream made my stomach growl-or maybe it was the sight waiting for me. Sunlight spilled through the windows, gilding Raziel's tattooed back as he stood at the stove, muscles shifting under his skin while he stirred the cast iron. I let my breath out slow, swaying my hips just a little, doing a silent victory dance because Raziel motherfucking Mercier was in my kitchen. Half-dressed. Cooking for me. He looked... domesticated. But dangerous. His pistol sat on the counter like a reminder. He'd shown up last night, a day after strong-arming Priest into lying to his fiancée. Miyori had mentioned inviting them to some little shindig-of course, I'd invited myself. I wanted to see how stiff my competition was. "I imagine this is how Jane felt in her fifth year of marriage to Calogero," I said, stretching like a cat. He glanced over his shoulder, one dark brow lifting. "What?" A Bronx Tale. I drifted closer, bare feet silent on the tiles. "My sister and I used to pretend there was a sequel where they got married. Figured C ended up an underboss. Jane stayed sweet, but she was the one he really answered to." Raziel turned just enough to pin me with that unreadable gaze. Not quite amused. Not quite annoyed. Just hot. "So you like me because your favorite movie's about mobsters?" I smirked, then closed the distance between us, sliding my arms around his waist from behind. My fingers traced the hard ridges of his abdomen before I pressed my lips to the space between his shoulder blades, breathing him in-spice, salt, something darkly addictive. I really did have an addictive personality. Everything about him made me crave. The way he stood, like the room belonged to him. The quiet weight of his presence. The danger behind his eyes. He didn't even have to touch me to make my skin ache. "I like you for so many other reasons," I whispered against his skin. He stilled, then turned just enough to look down at me, his voice a rough scrape over my nerves. "Name a few." I let my teeth graze his back, then pressed my lips to the spot before pulling away to meet his eyes. "You have a very talented mouth." His pupils darkened. "You're generous with your hands and your money. You look especially good when you're pissed. And-" I nipped at his lower lip. "You cook for me." A low sound rumbled in his chest, something between a laugh and a growl. "Superficial." "Mmm." I dragged my fingertips down the center of his chest, following the trail of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband. "But I've got one that's not." His breath hitched, just barely. "Yeah?" I leaned in until my lips brushed the shell of his ear. "It's a secret." His grip tightened on the spatula, knuckles whitening. "What kind of secret?" I pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, my smile all mischief. "One I'll only tell you when you like me." For a heartbeat, the world stopped. His eyes burned, the air between us thick enough to taste. Then, with a rough exhale, he turned back to the stove, muttering, "If you're not gonna tell me, hush and let me finish this sauce." I laughed and walked away, letting my fingertips trail across his lower back before stealing a fork and spearing a bite of pasta straight from the pan. "Hot," he warned. "So am I." I winked, blowing on the noodle before slipping it into my mouth. It melted on my tongue-rich, garlicky, buttery. I groaned. "You cook as good as you fuck." He side-eyed me, his mouth twitching, but he didn't say anything. I slid onto the kitchen island, legs swinging, watching him move. "Stop staring at me like that," he said without looking. "Like what?" "Like you're waiting for a confession." I laughed, smug. "Guilty. But it's not for selfish reasons. I really want to tell you why I like you." His gaze flicked to me, and I knew I was getting to him. But instead of pressing, I changed the subject. "You wanna eat and watch A Bronx Tale with me?" He finished plating the pasta and slid a dish my way before answering. "Yeah," he said. Simple. Firm. Giving in like I knew he would. Five-year-old Annie, who can understand animals, saved Landon Hawthorne, a wealthy businessman, from suicide. Now she's his whole world and he's her legal cheat-code against every villain fate throws ...