Page 74 of Kill Feed

I tilt my head slightly, studying the angle of his shoulders and how clinical he moves. Even now, even alone. Yet there is a peacefulness over him, and I find—to my own mild annoyance—that I’m just as interested in this version.

He reaches for the camera next, lifting it with both hands, checking something on the screen. His thumb moves across the buttons, and there’s something almost intimate about it.

“Careful,” I say lightly, voice cutting clean through the space, “you’re starting to look domesticated.”

He freezes. Shoulders start locking, spine straightening as everything in him snaps back into place.

I watch the reaction ripple through him before he even turns. His eyes widen for a beat, then settle into an icy-cold stare that pins me in place.

I push off the doorframe fully this time, stepping into the studio like I own it, as if I belong here, like I’m not the disruption but the inevitable next step about to bring a hurricane to his carefully precalculated space.

“Relax,” my voice easy and almost bored as I say it. “Do you always have to be this tense?”

He doesn’t move back; instead, he just watches me. Calculated as always, and I can see it already.

“Tell me,” I murmur, softer now with something sharper threading through it, “are you going to try to kill me again tonight… or are we past that?”

He doesn’t answer, but I catch the way his fingers twitch, and my smile widens at the motion.

“You’re the one trying to kill me,” he finally says, voice level. “Are you past that?” His tone might be calm, but his eyes aren’t. They track everything. From my hands, my posture, the distance between us—all measured down to inches and outcomes. He’s already run three versions of this in his head and picked the one where he doesn’t die.

Fuck, I love the way his brain works.

A laugh escapes me as I drift further into the space, slow and unbothered, letting my gaze wander over the studio as if I’m here for anything other than him. I reach a low leather couch and drop onto it lazily, stretching my arms over my head, shoulders pulling back, posture loose and open. A quiet claim that I’m not the one under threat here.

I meant what I said. I’m going to break him. This cat and mouse game has only just started.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him move.

He steps to the table and grabs the first thing within reach. A metal light stand rod or whatever the fuck that is.

I huff out a laugh, low and amused, letting my head tip back against the couch for a second before I look at him properly again. “Really?” I say, eyes flicking to the weapon in his hand. “That’s what you’re going with?”

He doesn’t rise to it, doesn’t bite back with a snarky remark.

I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, studying him with open interest now, no pretense left. “You know,” I add casually, “you’re a lot more interesting when you’re like this.”

My gaze drags over him. “Sharp and focused.” The faint smirk pulls deeper at my mouth. “Almost like you want me to try something.”

His jaw shifts. That irritation I keep pulling out of him, over and over again, just to see how far it goes.

I sit back again, spreading my arms along the back of the couch like I’ve settled in for a show. “Calm down, Adrian,” I say, softer now, almost coaxing. “I meant what I said; I’m not here to kill you.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“Just put the stick down,” I add teasingly. “Or don’t; either way I’m enjoying this.”

“The building has cameras,” he adds, voice even and measured. “So, whatever you’re planning-”

“Oof,” I cut in, a hand pressing briefly to my chest in mock offense. “Of course I’ve already disarmed them. Damn, are you going to keep insulting me like that, baby?”

“Stop calling me that,” he protests, teeth almost grinding together, shoulders locking again. A perfect little reflex of constant recalibration every time I move the ground under him.

I huff, dragging my thumb over my lower lip, brushing across the split there, the faint phantom sting still lingering.

“No?” I murmur, almost to myself, before my eyes flick back to him. “Yet you clearly marked me. Seems to me you want me just as much as I want you.”

“Territorial,” I add, almost thoughtfully. “Like a stray that finally found something it doesn’t want taken.”