Clara opened her eyes slowly and winced at the sunlight that was creeping from behind a curtain. She felt a bit sore, but better. She examined the room but there was no sign of Cyra.
She had stubbornly refused to take one of the many spare rooms he had offered her last night so he made her up a bed on the couch and he slept on the floor right below her.
She thought it was sweet that he didn't want to leave her downstairs alone and even sweeter that he slept on the hard floor, especially knowing very well that he has a comfortable, oversized bed upstairs somewhere that he was sacrificing just to make sure she felt safe.
She stretched and then rose to her feet. The oversized sweatshirt that Cyra had lent her made her feel small… like a little kid. She put the sleeves up to her face, the corners of her lips pulled into a soft smile that vanished almost instantly, quickly looking over her shoulder to make sure Cyra wasn't there watching.
Good, no Cyra.
In fact, the mansion was unnervingly quiet. She folded her blankets into a neat stack before heading toward the soundless hall, thirst scratching at her throat.
The first door she passed by opened into what looked like a study — but not the kind for show. Shelves towered with books worn at the spines, mostly on history, criminal psychology, and strategy. A chessboard sat mid-game on the desk and a few tabs of paper littered the otherwise perfectly tidy desk.
The next room was dimmer and in disarray. There was a plastic paint-splattered drop cloth under a wooden easel. Large canvases leaned stacked against the wall. There were black, shades of blue, and gray brushstrokes coiled into storm-like shapes — no signatures, no bright colors.
A single finished piece hung framed on the far wall. It was a portrait of a young man with the same sharp jaw as Cyra, his eyes caught mid-laugh. Clara's gaze lingered, some small knot tightening in her chest, but she moved on.
She was walking down the hall when she spotted the back of Cyra's head as he moved about over the stove and counter.
It looks like I found the kitchen and the missing villain.
"Oh, you're up finally. Good morning Darling." He turned his head just slightly so she could see a warm smile but kept to his task. "— I didn't know what you would like to eat for breakfast so I made a little of everything."
Clara cautiously move to one of the stool-like chairs that were placed at the counter of the kitchen island. "You... you made me breakfast?" She asked, guarded.
"You act like that's strange. You are a guest in my home, of course I made you breakfast."
He finally turned and faced Clara. He placed a plate of an exquisite array of food in front of her. The plate clinked on the sparkling white countertop.
Cyra's hospitality made Clara feel slightly uncomfortable. She had never been waited on by a male companion before and especially not after spending the night. It felt very intimate to her but Cyra carried on.
"Look, I know you don't trust me", Cyra said cautiously. "But I want you to. I do bad things but I'm not all bad. You can trust me." Cyra's dark eyes gleamed dark and unblinking.
There was a cold undercurrent in those eyes that sent a shiver down Clara's spine. Dangerous, no matter how kind his gestures were.
"I'd never hurt you." He reassured.
Clara didn't move. After a long silence she spoke.
"I... I need to get my car." Clara answered, looking down as she spooned a mound of delicious tasting food in her mouth, avoiding the weight of his stare.
It was absolutely heavenly and she quickly shoveled in another.
"Oh yes that's right, you drove yourself to the warehouse didn't you? Hm. That's a problem." Cyra turned back to the stove.
Clara walked over to the counter where Cyra was standing to find something to drink. Her throat was so dry and scratchy, she was finding it hard to converse or swallow her food. He handed her two glasses he had already poured, one with fresh orange juice, the other a small mug of coffee.
"I didn't know which you'd prefer."
"What's the problem?" She hurried. She glanced at the drinks and took both from him, also not knowing which one she'd prefer.
"Well you see, it won't be safe for you to drive it anymore." He said pouring himself a cup of coffee. "If they noticed it there at the warehouse last night, there's a good chance that they have your license plate number now. They'll be looking for you."
"—You can have one of mine. I have a matte black Benz that you would look very sexy driving." He looked Clara over. Clara frowned.
"Of course you'd have multiple cars at your disposal, why am I not surprised?" She scoffed and sat back down to finish eating.
"I don't want your car, you probably bought it with blood money." She waved her fork at him as she spoke. "I want my car, the one I paid for with honest, hard-earned money."
"Fine. We'll go get your car. But you still shouldn't drive it for awhile. You can park it in my garage and use one of mine temporarily, at least until the heat dies down. Deal?"
"I like how you didn't deny that they were bought with blood money."
"Deal or no deal?" He asked impatiently.
"Deal. But I'm keeping this sweatshirt." She brought an oversized sleeve up to her face and twisted her wrist back and forth admiringly. It smelled nice too.
"I didn't take you for a sweatshirt kind of girl. Every time I see you you're half nude."
Clara scowled at him annoyed. "What I wear is none of your business! Do you have a problem with me being half nude?" Clara barked, her mouth filled with food.
"Yes, actually I do." Cyra leaned over the counter, putting his face right in front of Clara's. He smiled devilishly.
"I'd rather you be FULLY nude."
SLAP!
The sound cracked through the quiet kitchen, sharp enough to make the cutlery on her plate tremble. Clara's palm stung a little, but she didn't move, didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
Cyra's head had turned slightly from the impact, dark hair falling into his eyes.
When he looked back at her, there was no anger — just that infuriating, wolfish smile, like if she'd handed him exactly what he'd wanted.
Her heart was pounding harder than she liked. Damn it.
She slid back onto her stool, shoving another bite into her mouth as if the heat crawling up her neck didn't exist.
She refused to let him see how she wondered what it would take to wipe that smile off his face for good.
Or what it would take to keep it there.