Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Kane’s face contorted, turning him into someone—something I didn’t recognize.
“Stay here,” he growled, sounding barely human before he let me go and ran into the restaurant.
My ear was still ringing from the slap, from the shock of the encounter and then from Kane’s transformation, so I hesitated, standing in that side alley holding my cheek and staring at Kane’s bike.
I couldn’t say for how long. But it couldn’t have been more than a minute. Surely not.
It was a crash that mingled against the faraway city sounds at the mouth of the alley. The crash and what sounded like a roar coming from the kitchen. The sounds that wrenched me out of my trance.
I ran, my heart trying to escape my chest and my cheek smarting as I rushed back into the restaurant, looking for the cause of the clamor. It was coming from my kitchen. My solace. My domain. My sanctuary.
Where, once again, Gerald had tried to victimize me.
Where Kane had Gerald on the ground, hitting him. The sounds of knuckles against flesh were a dull, wet thud.
And he didn’t stop hitting him.
Not for a long time.
Thirteen
Kane was arrested.
Once the police got there, that was.
Right before that, Kane had been staring at Gerald’s battered face. Then up at me.
When our gazes locked, I flinched. The burning in my cheek was nothing compared to the agony in my soul caused by that look.
Kane was no longer a rage-filled animal. There was no fight left in him. No, there was only love, naked, wretched love on his face. It wasn’t that tender, playful love I’d grown accustomed to. No, this was something ugly. It was spattered with blood and resignation over what had happened here.
Kane had beaten a man because of me. He’d let go of the control he’d held on to so tightly since the last time he’d been locked up. And he was sober now, you could see it in his face. He saw his fate ahead of him. Police. A young, fit man covered in blood. An older, paunchy man battered from his fists.
There was a knife, one I’d used for herbs, lying on the ground. Kane was bleeding—I hadn’t realized that at first, since he was covered in Gerald’s blood. A flesh wound on the meaty part of his bicep, but it horrified me.
Gerald, at some point had tried to stab him. The police kept asking whether it was before or after the beating started; that was an important detail.
Before was what Kane said.
Would they believe him?
Did I believe him?
Would it matter in a court of law?
I had to swallow bile once I realized what that meant for Kane.
My feet were leaden as I tried to step toward him. And my mouth was dry, unable to find words.
Kane had been the one to call the police. Once he’d stopped hitting Gerald. Once the man’s handsome face was no longer recognizable and Kane’s knuckles were crimson. He’d ripped his stare from mine, got his phone from his pocket then called them, voice even, calm. Blood dripped from his hands as he held the phone to his ear.
He dropped the phone beside him once the call was made. Still, I couldn’t move. I was cemented in place, horrified at my body’s response, the freezing. Somewhere, deep down, I was screaming at myself to move, to hug Kane, to tell him I loved him, to do something. But I didn’t. I just stayed there. Useless.
And then the police crashed in. It was only mere minutes after calling them. Who knew if they were in the area or it was a low crime day. Maybe it was luck. If you could call it that.
Once they took statements, the police didn’t look at Gerald with much sympathy, nor did they look happy about putting Kane in cuffs.
But their hands were tied. It wasn’t self-defense, nor was Kane ‘saving me’ from any kind of assault. It was revenge, pure and simple.
It was attempted murder, someone said, somewhere.
I told them about the knife, that Kane had been stabbed. That must’ve meant something.
I tried to hold on to all the details, hold on to my trademark calm. This is when it was needed most. But my kitchen was a mess. There was blood splatter on the floor. It was cluttered with strangers, officers, paramedics. A lot of them. I didn’t know if it was because of the restaurant or Kane’s fame. It didn’t matter.
The man I loved was getting cuffed and hauled away.
Gerald had already been taken away by paramedics. Not in a body bag.
Kane hadn’t killed him.
That was good.
Not because I wanted Gerald alive—a cold part of me would’ve liked to see him dead—but because I didn’t want that piece of shit to turn Kane into a murderer.
“Chef,” Kane’s voice brought me back to the moment.