Page 18 of Fury

“It’s fine. But I like yours better. Please tell me you like to cook, or what a waste of an incredible kitchen.”

“I cook.”

Eggs sizzled as the first batch hit the heat. In the pan next to it, she dumped in a pile of sausage crumbles, diced tomatoes, and green chiles. Once the food was popping along, she turned and relaxed her hands into her pockets. “You cook, but will you truly appreciate having eight burners, double ovens, and an island that has twice the footprint of my bathroom? Do you have any idea how many outlets you have? My kitchen has two outlets. Two.”

A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “Are you complaining to your landlord about the shitty apartment he’s lent you?”

Hip cocked out, attitude cockier, she tipped her chin up. “One might think my landlord and neighbor would be a smidge more gracious, knowing I’m about to quiz him about his coming home in the wee hours of the ’morn covered in blood.”

A laugh bubbled in his throat. “First, there’s a good chance I’m a serial killer, yet you came into my den to feed me? Trying to get on my good side?”

“Ha.” She lifted her coffee and grinned over the lip of the mug. “I can smell death a mile away, and you don’t scare me. What’s point number two?”

“Why do you doubt my cooking skills? Is it because I’ve got a penis? Because that would piss me off.”

Eryn ruffled her hands in her wet hair. “My sister has a penis, and she’s a better cook than I am. Although, fair warning, steer clear of her homemade pizza. The cornmeal crust is epic, but she adds bacon and jalapeños and this blackberry jam concoction, and it’s weird. While I’m sure your penis is as useful in the kitchen as it is in other rooms of the house, I doubt your cooking because you have the paltriest selection of kitchen tools and small appliances that I have ever seen. You only have one spatula. One. And this coming from a woman with a few mortgages worth of student debt.”

“I happen to think pizza with jalapeños and bacon and jam sounds delicious.” He tipped a teasing nod. “Maybe you’re the one who can’t cook.”

Eryn held his gaze, her amusement flickering brightly. “Your toaster has wood paneling, and I’m pretty sure we had the same one in my house growing up. Your coffee pot, however, is a thing of beauty.”

“My last place was smaller than my laundry room. The kitchen was smaller than your shower. That toaster is older than you are, and can still make a perfect piece of toast.” Tempted beyond reason to keep goading her, he sniffed the air and glanced toward the pan. “I hope that one’s yours. I like my toppings folded in, and the cheese melted.”

A hissing growl vibrated over her shoulders, but the smile behind it floored him.

She flipped the overcooked omelet onto a plate and slapped three slices of cheddar on it, added half of the filling, folded it over, and turned to face him. “Was there a third point?”

He picked up the plate and scooped a bite of omelet. The cheese was slightly warm from the heat of the rubbery eggs and charred toppings. “Can you not cook because you don’t have a penis?”

Her delighted belly laugh brightened the room and blew every trace of last night’s spilled demon blood from his soul. She poured the rest of the eggy mix into the pan, this time not turning from the stove. “I’m a fantastic cook. I’m also sleep-deprived and intimidated by this gorgeous kitchen. It’s been just Lexi and me since we were teenagers, so we had to know how to live off more than Top Ramen.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I was kidding. This is delicious.”

“You don’t have to be nice, especially in reminding me why that’s not something I usually share. We were showered with enough pity to last a lifetime, when they died. So we’ll leave it at that.” She scrunched her nose, brow quirking together, and she shook it off.

Vann squinted, trying to read her. The way she talked, her smile, her tone, her posture, said she seemed like an open book.

A façade.

The baggy t-shirt couldn’t hide that she was toned as fuck. Her eyelids were heavy after the long night shift, but her gaze was alert. She leaned against the cupboard like she was enjoying a lazy morning, but her shoelaces were double-knotted and her waistband was tied tight.

He scooped in another bite and chewed with purpose. “The omelet is delicious, albeit overcooked and with inadequately melted cheese. Better?”

“Acceptable.” She turned back to her omelet and flipped it in perfect timing. “You. Blood. Explain.”

“What, you don’t believe the serial killer thing? We just met. I could be anyone.”

“Sure.” One shoulder lifted, then her eyebrow, and she eyed him with a tease.

Over the years, he’d had enough cover stories, in case it came up. But he kept to himself, so it was rarely an issue. It helped to know who he was talking to. A medical occupation cover wouldn’t fly with these neighbors. “I do private security.”

Her brow scrunched together. She plated her omelet and leaned against the cupboard across from him. “So you…”

“Can’t talk about it.” Best fucking answer ever. “Private security.”

A string of cheddar twined around her fork as she spun and lifted her next bite. “I see. You work security for serial killers.”

“Close enough.”