Chapter 71 Let's play
"Do you want to play a game?" Kaden asks, his voice cutting through the hum of the refrigerator.
The kitchen island is too large for two people, yet Kaden has managed to colonize my personal space anyway. I’d warmed up the chef’s braised short ribs with rosemary potatoes and charred carrots...something he’d prepared earlier before leaving. Kaden had immediately dug in like he hadn’t eaten in days. I’m not hungry, I don’t believe in the performative act of eating when the body hasn't signaled a need, but Kaden had flatly refused to eat alone while I "loomed over him like a vulture." Apparently watching him eat without participating was serial killer behavior.
So, I have a small portion in front of me that I’ve been slowly moving around with a fork for the last five minutes.
I’m watching him more than the food.
I turn to him, my expression sharpening into something suspicious and inherently untrusting. "What kind of game?"
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reaches for the two bottles we brought up from the cellar, dragging them across the marble. He places the bottle he’d practically adopted earlier in front of himself. The other lands in front of me.
"Truth or drink," he says simply.
"What the fuck is that?"
"Exactly what it sounds like. I ask a question. You either tell the truth, or you take a glass of this." He taps the neck of his bottle. "And vice versa."
I shake my head, my gaze falling to the dark liquid. I should have left it in the vault. "I'm not interested in a confessional."
"Really?" He leans in, his voice dropping to that persuasive register. "You're going to say no to the victim of both a kidnapping and tire slaying that you—"
"I’ve heard it, Kaden," I cut him off, shaking my head. "I got the message the first five times you mentioned it."
He doesn't pull back. If anything, he invades further. I find myself holding my breath as he leans in, the tip of his nose brushing against my cheek in a slow, agonizingly soft caress. His hand finds my thigh, his palm hot even through the fabric of my lounge pants, fingers rubbing slow circles that immediately short-circuit whatever thought I was trying to hold onto
"Let's play," he whispers.
My thoughts scatter under the weight of his touch and the scent of wine on his breath. I find myself nodding....not because I want to play, but because the feel of him against me has rendered 'no' an obsolete word.
His mouth curves victoriously. Then he presses a soft kiss just beneath my ear before he pulls back just enough to look at me. "First question," he says, his eyes searching mine. "Were you really only drawn to me because of how I look?" He asks, "Nothing else? Honestly?"
I reach out, my fingers curling around his chin to guide him back a few inches. For the sake of my own sanity, I need the distance.
"Of course not," I say, my voice steady.
A flicker of something...relief, maybe even a spark of genuine excitement, washes over his features. He tries to mask it, pulling the smirk back into place, but he leans forward hopefully. "Really?"
I nod, perfectly serious, my gaze dropping to his lips before meeting his eyes again.
"Of course," I repeat. "I also particularly liked the way your ass looked in those jeans. The view had me picturing exactly what it looks like without them on."
I don’t break eye contact, I take a slow breath, my gaze flickering down in a blatantly possessive scan, before I look back up. "And I have to say, Kaden, I can’t wait to find out. Drives me nuts just thinking about it."
He scoffs, though the sound is breathless, lacking any real bite. He shakes his head and leans back in his chair, putting a calculated distance between us. "You’re a piece of work," he states, then..."Next question." He starts to lean in, his eyes bright with a predatory curiosity. "Where did you actually grow up? I mean—"
I frown, my hand coming up to stall him. "I’m pretty sure it’s my turn. Isn't that how these games work? Reciprocity?"
Kaden shakes his head adamantly, a rogue strand of hair falling over his forehead. "No. You don't get any turns."
“What kind of dictatorship....” I start, about to point out how utterly unfair that is when the sound of footsteps hitting the floor makes the air in the room shift. I don't need to look to know who it is. There's only one other person on this property, and his gait is as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
Kaden’s head snaps toward the doorway, his expression instantly shifting from playful to alert, a wary tension coiling in his shoulders. A moment later, George walks in. He’s dressed in his usual suit trousers, but the jacket and tie are gone, his white sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My jaw tightens as I track him. George’s gaze sweeps over the room with a practiced efficiency. It lingers on me, then slides to Kaden, and finally drops to the wine bottles sitting between us. He stares at them for a second too long before raising his eyes back to mine.
He doesn’t say a word, but the message is as clear as if he’d shouted it....'You’re being reckless. Again.'
I hold his stare, refusing to be the first to blink. George has been a fixture in my life since I was a teenager. When I burned the bridges to my family and left my past in the ashes, he was the only piece of the wreckage that followed. It took years for me to accept that he wasn’t going to leave, but fifteen years later, he still hasn't grasped the hierarchy of our relationship.
He has a habit of acting like my father, a role I never asked him to fill and one I’ve repeatedly reminded him he doesn't hold. But George is stubborn. He either doesn't care about the boundaries I set, or he simply chooses not to listen.
He walks over to the cupboard, grabs a plate, and moves to the fridge. He begins plating a portion of the food with a quiet, methodical focus. "You have that meeting tomorrow at nine," he says, his voice flat but underlined with a subtle edge of reprimand.
"I had it postponed."
That earns me a curt, sharp look. George shifts his focus to Kaden, who has suddenly found something fascinatingly engrossing on his phone, his thumb scrolling rapidly through a screen I know is probably blank.
"Should I prepare to take your friend back?" George asks, his gaze flicking back to me. "Or can I turn in for the night?"
"Kaden's staying," I say.
George gives a small, slow nod. "I see."
The warning in his eyes is flashing like a beacon before he turns to the microwave and slides his plate inside. He crosses his arms, leaning back against the marble counter to wait. The silence that follows is a suffocating, heavy blanket that makes the microwave sound like a jet engine.
George has his own private wing on the premises. It’s fully stocked. There's absolutely no reason for him to be standing here, lurking in the middle of the kitchen. No reason other than to witness my unraveling.
The microwave finally beeps. He turns it off, reaches in, and retrieves the steaming plate. He doesn't move toward the door. Instead, he turns to me.
"Can I have a word?"
I reach out, slowly pushing the wine bottle an inch to the left. I look up at him, my expression a mask of cold indifference. "No."
He huffs out a small breath, a tiny fracture in his stoic facade. He nods again, the movement stiff, and starts walking out of the kitchen.
"I hope you both have a good night," he says.
There's a tone there....a dark, knowing weight to the words that lingers long after he’s disappeared down the hall.
"What was that about?" Kaden asks, his voice cutting through the heavy, lingering silence. He’s looking at the doorway, then back at me, his brow furrowed with a mix of curiosity and genuine unease.
I shake my head, the tension in my jaw finally beginning to ache. "Nothing."
I try to reach for the thread of the conversation we were having before George walked in, there’d been something warm settling between us. Dangerous, yes, but fluid. Easy in a way that doesn’t come naturally to me. Now it feels splintered. Like someone opened a window somewhere and let cold air rush in. George’s look replays in my head anyway, the warning in it. The disappointment and concern.
I fucking hate concern, specially when it’s directed at me like I’m some unstable thing seconds away from detonating. I look at the wine bottle, then back at Kaden. "Can we save the game for another time?" I ask, my voice sounding tired even to my own ears.
Kaden studies me for a long moment, the way the walls have started to slide back into place, just gives a slow, understanding nod.
"Okay," he says softly. "Another time."