Chapter 19: HANS: Chapter 20

Should’ve known it wouldn’t be an enemy that gets me, but rather, pretty little Cassandra burning my house down from the inside.

I lift the spoon to my lips, pretending that I don’t notice Cassandra standing there staring at me.

The scent of burned meat overwhelms any other pleasant aroma the soup might give off, but I keep my features relaxed as the first taste hits my tongue.

I take a second bite, then take pity on Cassandra and look her way.

“Okay?” Her expression is so hopeful it twists something in my chest.

“Yes.” I nod. “Thank you.”

Her mouth pulls into a bright smile, and tension drops from her shoulders. “Oh, good.” She points at my empty mug. “Would you like another?”

I nod and watch her ass in those fucking leggings as she sways back into the kitchen.

I lied to her earlier when she asked if I’d had dinner. I had two ham sandwiches. I’m not the least bit hungry. But I can’t turn down her food.

My fingers flex around the spoon as I take another bite.

Even assuming it wouldn’t be good, I couldn’t turn down a chance to consume something she made.

As she walks back into the living room carrying two mugs, I wonder if there’s a way I could ask her to write Italian wedding soup on a Post-it for me. It feels wrong to not have this meal documented like the rest.

But then Cassandra sits on the couch next to me, and I accept that this meal isn’t like the others. This isn’t me standing in the kitchen, choking down what she’d left on my front step. This is me sitting two feet away from her gloriously soft body.

Nothing has changed. I still shouldn’t have her here with me. Shouldn’t let her anywhere near me. But I can’t find it in me to make her leave. Because deep down, I want her to stay.

“Figured I’d have a second too.” She gestures her mug to me as she sets mine on the coffee table. “It is the weekend, after all.” Then she settles back into the couch, drink cradled in her hand. “What’re you watching?” Her brows furrow beneath her curly bangs.

I want to brush her hair aside and trace my finger over the cute wrinkles that form across her forehead when she makes that expression.

“What language is that?”

What…?

My brain catches up, and I turn back to the TV.

Oops.

It’s a Swedish film. In Swedish.

I don’t usually slip up like this, showing someone something about myself by accident. I don’t need her knowing I speak Swedish. Or Italian. Or Spanish.

Pretending I misheard her, I pick up the remote to exit out of the movie, then hand the remote to Cassandra.

“Oh, I didn’t mean…” She tries to give it back to me, but I pick my spoon back up and gesture to my throat.

If I’m stuck faking this cold and eating burned meat soup instead of feasting on her body, I’m going to use the few advantages it gives me.

Sighing, she clicks through the available titles, stopping on a documentary about secret societies.

I can feel her watching me for a sign of how I feel, but when I don’t say anything, she selects it.

Cassandra sets the remote on the coffee table, then props her feet next to it, mirroring my position. “I’ve been meaning to watch this. And if you don’t like it…” She takes a sip of her drink. “Too bad. You had ample opportunity to object.”

I smirk around my next bite of burned soup. Butterfly has a backbone.