Page 23 of Kane's Kingdom

Kane walks me to the door with his hand hovering near my back, the restraint strangely intimate after last night. "Prospect's taking you in."

"I can drive myself."

"No."

I glance up at him. "That sounded presidential."

"It was meant to."

Last night changed something beyond the sex. He trusted me with the part of his grief he'd never shown anyone else, then held me as if waking beside me was something he'd wanted for years. I've always told myself Kane is dangerous because of his patch; this morning, the dangerous thing is how safe he makes me feel.

"Back before four," he says.

"You planning to set a curfew now?"

"If I need to."

Normally, that would earn him an argument. Instead, I rise onto my toes and kiss him. The clubhouse falls silent, and his hand finally settles against my back.

"Four," he repeats, his eyes darkening.

I walk outside before he can see me smile.

The prospect guarding me is twenty-two at most. His name is Eli, though the club calls him Prospect until he earns something more. He follows me to the Landing, takes a corner table with a view of the door and road, and spends the morning doing exactly what Kane ordered.

Marisol is in Springfield with her sister today. Before leaving, she made me promise I wouldn't use her absence as an excuse to burn the cafe down trying to multitask cooking and serving.

By noon the rush is over, and the Kingdom Come cut in the corner has done its job. By one-thirty, I'm starting to believe the worst is over when Eli checks his phone again.

"You expecting a proposal?" I tease.

He pockets it. "Just club stuff. I've got to run an errand."

I stop wiping the counter. "Kane told you to stay."

"I'll be back before close. Twenty minutes max."

The kitchen timer starts shrilling. When I glance back, he's already getting up to leave.

"Eli, is this a good idea?"

"Nothing's happened in days."

They're the same words I've repeated all morning and I'm tired of being afraid inside my own business. Besides, there are no customers in right now. "Twenty minutes," I say.

Relief crosses his face too quickly, and he leaves before I can change my mind.

I pull a tray of rolls from the oven and tell myself Kane never needs to know. That thought survives seven minutes.

The smell of gasoline cuts through the warm scent of fresh bread. The back door stands open a few inches, though I'mcertain I closed it, and something scrapes across the gravel outside.

I step back as a bottle crashes through the rear window. Glass and liquid spray across the prep table and my jeans; a second later, flame races over the gasoline in a bright sheet.

Heat drives me backward. I stare at the fire climbing the wall of the kitchen before instinct finally takes over and I grab the extinguisher.

The nearest flames fall beneath the white cloud, but fire is already curling up the old paneling. With the back exit cut off, I turn toward the dining room and hit the jammed swinging door with my shoulder until it gives.

Smoke has filled the cafe. Orange light flickers behind the pastry case, and another line of fire climbs near the front window. They haven't come to frighten me this time; they've come to make sure nothing survives.