Page 85 of The Rival's Obsession
He pulls down two glasses anyway and pours, like we do this every Saturday. Which, lately... we kind of do.
If there’s anything in this world that doesn’t need my protection, it’s Jaxon Kane.
He’s tall. Built like a weapon. Trains with Lucian Vale, which means he could break ribs in his sleep. Fights in underground rings like he needs the cash—which he absolutely does not—and walks through life like the rules are a suggestion he’s already declined.
He’s richer than God and twice as bored.
But here he is. In my kitchen. Bringing cheesecake. Getting ready to teach me how to be a hacker.
That may be a little dramatic. Some light online stalking, if anything.
“So, whose life are we ruining? Do we get to erase any identities today? Because that is one of my favorite things to do.”
“Jaxon Kane!” I scold like I’m a mother.
That thought gives me shivers down my spine.
Me. A mother. With actual living kids.
Gross.
Absolutely not in a million years.
“What?” He shrugs like he’s innocent. “I give them back.”
I look at him, deadpan.
“Most of the time.”
“I’m not hacking anyone.” I hop up on a barstool and flip open the box. The cheesecake is perfect, of course. Fluffy, creamy, a little tart.Elena, you are a goddess among immortals.
The first bite is perfection, and I close my eyes, letting it carry away the weight of the world for just a moment.
“I just need to know how to look up someone’s history. Like birth records, doctors’ visits, schools, neighbors, maybe. Who nannied them—if you’re feeling generous.”
He laughs softly, already helping himself to my laptop. “Jesus, Eve. You want me to teach you how to read someone’s soul, too?”
I shrug. “If you’ve got time.”
“You know I can’t say no to you.”
I arch a brow. “Because I’m cute?”
“Because I’m scared you’ll stab me in my sleep.”
Fair.
“You got a name?” he asks, eyes already flicking across his screen.
I do.
“Grant Harrow.”
The moment I say it, Jaxon’s fingers pause mid-keystroke, and that particular gleam sparks in his eyes—the one that means trouble is about to be fun.
“Well, well,” he drawls, already opening new tabs. “Now that’s a name. Harrow money goes back generations. Rumor has it the original patriarch was part of some underground secret society. You know—skull rings, blood oaths, sacrificing firstborns at midnight. Old-money weirdness.”
I roll my eyes. “Save the tinfoil hat for someone who believes the moon landing was staged. I’m not here for conspiracy theories. I’m looking for the break.”
