Hunted

Chapter Twelve

Palms gently tapped the countertop, yanking me out of my subterfuge.

"Well on that cheery note," the doctor smiled, dimples crinkling, "How about breakfast? Cereal? Pancakes? Waffles? I made an omelet once, but I wouldn't— at least, not with those peppers—"

I couldn't help but cut my eyes toward him. That had to have been one of the least subtle conversation diversions I'd heard in a while. The rest of the group seemed to agree. Mr. Blackborne paused with his coffee cup an inch away from his lips, a tired sigh escaping his chest as he peered to the ceiling for patience.

My mouth opened, "Uhm—"

"Fuck no," Gabriel muttered from the couch, "Don't fucking do it, trouble."

Luke poked his head back over the end of the sofa, nodding like a hyperactive meercat, "Gabe's right. He'll kill you."

It was the absolute wrong thing to say. I was beginning to suspect they had a habit of that. For mafia men, it was in poor taste. Maybe they humored themselves through subtle threats? An inside joke sort of thing— if criminals could joke. Or would they be anti-heroes? Maybe the Academy groomed assassins. That would fit in with Victor's odd phrasing.

In any case, my fingers inched toward the untouched coffee in front of me. I wasn't sure what I planned to do with it, but if worse comes to worse, I'd fling it at Sean's head. It wouldn't hurt him too badly. It was definitely lukewarm now. The ceramic bits might cause a mess, but—

"No," before I could blink, a thick finger flicked me in the nose, "I said no murdering today."

The coffee cup followed the hand's retreat, my own startled gaze tracing the movement back to Raven's smirk. With a mischievous wink, he took a casual sip of the nasty beverage and strolled further into the room. The action left my gaping at his back— staring at the tight black tee-shirt he'd stuffed himself into and the array of dark, swirling tattoos trailing down his forearms and sneaking up his neck. He took another sip of the drink before collapsing on the sofa next to North.

"You know," Luke chimed in, watching me over the back of the couch. I wasn't sure I liked the charming smirk that cut through his cheeks, "I thought we were past this."

"I didn't," words failed me once again, "I wasn't— it's just," my hands fell open in surrender, "you said he'd kill me."

"A figure of speech, Ms. Sorenson," Mr. Blackborne explained. Grey eyes watched me behind his glasses, cataloguing my movements with a strange intensity, "Albeit a poor one."

As my gaze traveled over the rest of the room, Victor's mouth ticked up when he caught my eye, "Luke was just warning you about Sean's cooking skills or lack of. It wasn't anything malicious."

"Like we'd go around poisoning you," Gabriel added, "Fucking wasteful."

That... wasn't much better.

"Really, man? Talk about tact," Marc drawled. He hadn't moved from his position near the coffee maker, but he'd paused in his fiddling with the carafe, "Let's not mention murder, or killing, or anything else that'll set the little hell cat off."

My attention swung to him, a perturbed frown growing at his casual tone, "Don't be rude."

Someone snorted in the background. My suspicions fell on Gabriel. From what I'd seen so far, he seemed the type.

"Don't plot about killing us," Marc tossed back, teasing, "That's what I'd call rude, kitten."

He'd taken that entirely out of context, "I wasn't—"

Was I? My hands fell flat against the counter top as I swallowed. That was a dangerous thought to follow. It reminded me too much of the man I'd attacked on the side of the road, the slumped over bodies of the hit men trapped in their car. I'd been concussed but I remembered the brief glimpse I'd caught of gaping mouths and unseeing eyes.