Hunter scooped up a heavy dollop of the peanut brittle-flavored ice cream and stuck it in his mouth. His ice-blue eyes regarded me curiously through the kitchen’s dim lighting, tracking the movement of my pink feathered pen as if he expected something specific to happen. What that might be was anyone’s guess. But when he slowly lowered the spoon from his lips, stuck it back into the tub, and leaned forward against the table, the silent challenge became perfectly clear.
It was in the way he stared at me—completely unsmiling, heavy, and carrying that cold, dark aura you only ever expected to find in a rogue. I bet he was entirely used to people fearing him, fleeing his presence with their tails tucked in tight the moment he walked into a room.
But I was not leaving this kitchen first, even
