Page 88 of Coerced Kiss

Fuck.

The back door.

The alarm didn’t go off, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t override it.

I clutch the weapon in both hands, my aim steady as I point the barrel in front of me.

Light washes from the end of the hallway.

I turn the corner, moving fast but quietly. A bright white beam spills through the kitchen door, cutting a wedge across the corridor wall. It could be nothing, just Anya getting that glass of milk, but I take nothing for granted.

A metallic clang cuts through the space, the razor-edged echo stabbing me right in the chest as I imagine Anya fighting for her life in the clutches of an attacker.

My pulse goes into overdrive.

In four long strides, I’m at the door, killing rage already flowing through my veins as I train my weapon with practiced precision in the direction of the noise and charge into the room while cataloguing everything at a glance—the red splashes on the bottom of the cupboards, the bloody puddle on the floor, and Anya kneeling in it.

“Anya,” I say in a controlled but terse voice, my gaze searching for the danger behind the island counter and in the dark shadows of the pantry as I move quickly toward her.

At the sound of her name, she jerks. When she looks up, her eyes grow round. “Saverio.” She raises her hands, staring at the gun. “What are you doing?”

She’s alone. Not under attack. Not in pain. Not bleeding. Not in distress. Except for the distress that the gun I’m waving at her is causing, that is.

“Jesus,” I say, lowering the weapon and spearing my fingers through my hair.

A can of tomatoes, the lid peeled open, lies next to the fridge.

“What are you doing?” she asks again, her tone uncertain. Scared.

I take a breath, take a moment to let the air fill my lungs. “I heard a noise.” I flick on the safety, walk around the mess, and put the gun on the fridge where it’s high enough to be out of her reach. “What areyoudoing?”

“Sorry,” she says, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I felt a little peckish, but the can slipped from my hands.”

I frown. “Are you hungry?”

She averts her gaze, almost appearing guilty. “We didn’t eat a proper dinner.”

“So you wanted to snack on canned tomatoes?”

Sticking her tongue into her cheek, she shrugs. “With Worcester sauce.”

“Worcester sauce?” I ask, going to the sink and grabbing a roll of paper towels from the cupboard underneath.

“Livy used to make me toast with grilled cheese and Worcester sauce when I was little.”

I crouch down and wipe up the mess. “You want grilled cheese on toast?”

“Just tomatoes with the sauce.”

Resting a hand on my bent knee, I look at her. “Let me get this straight. You want canned tomatoes with Worcester sauce.”

“Yes,” she says enthusiastically before adding hopefully, “You don’t happen to have Worcester sauce, do you?”

“No.” I get up and throw the soaked paper towels in the trash. “I’ve never had the craving.”

And then I stop dead.

Fuck me.