Chapter 13: Roast or spare?
Her eyes rolled, but her smirk held—sharp, alive. Then she leaned in, scarred elbows slamming the table—plates rattling. "This rehab crap—real or just your twisted game for fun?" Her voice cut, low and biting, amber eyes boring into him. "No one else here. Just me, caged. What's the angle?"
Kael stretched back, arms flexing—hazel eyes steady, grin lazy but keen. "Real's what you make it," he said, voice smooth, sidestepping. "You're the VIP—first spark, early bird."
She bared her teeth, unimpressed. "Cut the shit. Is this a program or a fucking trap? No patients, no rules—just us in this dump. Explain."
His grin sharpened, leaning closer—breath brushing her glare. "You think I'd waste my time on a scam? Got a vision—messy, yeah—but you're the proof." He jabbed a finger her way—plate, t-shirt, her. "Sitting here, scarfing eggs, not frying me. That's the game—works, doesn't it?"
"Fuck that," she snapped, voice a whipcrack, slamming her fist down—table shuddering. "Peel thisllar off, and I'd turn this hole to cinders. No pause, no mercy." Her amber eyes blazed, wild and true, daring him to blink.
Kael's brow arched, grin unfazed—leaning in, close enough to feel her heat. "And me, pyro? Roast or spare?"
She tilted her head, mock-thoughtful—then grinned, all teeth, wicked. "Depends—kneel, grovel, be my bitch, and I might let you breathe." Her voice purred, dark and sharp, a flame licking the edge.
He laughed—loud, raw—head shaking as he stood, grabbing their plates—ceramic clattering. "Hot offer, but I'm not that desperate," he shot back, hazel eyes dancing. "You're a riot, Rhea."
Her grin lingered—feral, alive—as they traded barbs, tensioniling then snapping loose. Then he straightened, voice dropping—firm, edged. "Lunch's done. Room time."