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Chapter 57: knock knock
knock knock
The door’s sharp knock jolted her upright, gray eyes narrowing as it creaked open.
Kael stepped in, casual as ever, holding two plates of grilled chicken—golden, juicy, the savory aroma curling through the air like a taunt.
"Made lunch," he said, his voice light but edged with mockery. "Figured you’d need it after torching yours to ash."
Freya’s glare could’ve melted steel, her cheeks still flushed from earlier.
"I’m not hungry," she snapped, voice tight, arms crossing over her chest to hide the hard peaks of her nipples pressing against her t-shirt. "Get out, Kael."
He ignored her, setting one plate on the bed beside her, the scent of perfectly seasoned meat wafting up, teasing her empty stomach.
"I know you, Freya—you love food," he said, hazel eyes glinting as he pulled a chair over, settling opposite her. "Skipping lunch’ll just fuel that temper of yours. Plus, you must be wiped after that kitchen ordeal."
His grin widened, a knowing flicker in his gaze as he took a slow bite of his chicken, chewing with exaggerated relish.
The sound of him eating—the soft crunch, the faint smack of his lips—gnawed at her resolve.
Her stomach growled, betraying her, and with a huff, she snatched the plate, stabbing a piece with her fork. She ate hesitantly, the flavor bursting on her tongue—tender, smoky, infuriatingly better than hers.
Their eyes met briefly, hers blazing, his smug, and the air crackled with unspoken tension.
Kael swallowed, leaning back in the chair, his tone shifting to something deliberate. "You never had a shot at winning, you know."
Freya’s fork paused midair, her glare sharpening. "Why the hell not?"
"You were straining too hard," he said, voice low, almost analytical, his hazel eyes locked on her. "Pushing yourself to breaking just to keep it together."
She frowned, chewing slowly, her guard up. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Kael leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze piercing through her.
"You’ve got this mask—this queen-like shell you cling to, even when you’re vulnerable as hell. You were fighting so damn hard in there to keep it up, to not let go. And then I started—" he smirked, a flicker of heat in his eyes—"giving you those sensations. You bottled it all up, every shiver, every spark, trying to stay composed. But the more you held it in, the weaker you got, the more distracted. You didn’t even notice your chicken turning to charcoal."
Freya froze, fork hovering, her gray eyes narrowing as his words sank in. She swallowed, the taste of the chicken suddenly bitter with truth.
"I underestimated you," she said, voice low, a challenge brewing. "I want a rematch."
Kael shook his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.
"You’ll keep losing, Freya. Doesn’t matter how many times we play this game—it won’t change until you’re real with yourself. You’ve got this other you, buried under layers of ice and steel, locked away so she can’t get hurt again. But she’s there, screaming to get out, and you’re suffocating her...."
Kael paused for effect., "When’s the last time you even talked to her? Isn’t she lonely? Isn’t that on you?"
His words hit like a slow, deliberate punch, each one prying at the cracks in her armor. Freya’s breath caught, her hands tightening around the plate, knuckles whitening. She didn’t answer—couldn’t—her mind reeling as his gaze dropped, deliberate and unhurried, to her body.
Her thighs were clenched tight, still fighting the tingling that pulsed through her, her nipples stiff and visible through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, straining against it with every shallow breath.
He’d done this to her—left her raw, exposed, her skin a map of lingering heat from his hands, his tongue, that vibration. She’d feel it for hours, a cruel echo of his victory, and maybe something else.
"Try asking her," he said, his voice soft yet firm. He stood, finishing his chicken, and cast her a lingering glance, urging her to ponder. Then he turned to leave, the door clicking shut quietly behind him.
The room fell silent along with Freya.
Kael wasn’t even sure if his spiel had made sense—he’d thrown it together on the fly, a patchwork of half-truths, provocations, and just enough sincerity to worm its way under her skin.
The trick wasn’t getting her to believe him—it was getting her to doubt herself.
It all traced back to a call he’d made when Freya first stepped into the Haven. Same guy who gave him her file yesterday, same quiet voice on the other end, the kind that only offered information if you knew how to ask.
That was when Kael started putting the pieces together—her triggers, her tells, the cracks in her armor she thought she’d hidden.
He got to know Freya loved to cook—not just a hobby, but a ritual, something grounding, something safe.
So, he made sure to serve her the blandest food possible, day after day, until she got tired of it and challenged him in some sort.
She’d finally snapped the day before, giving Kael a path to pave into.
That was step one.
In the kitchen, he played dirty. When his hand brushed hers, he subtly used his Empathetic Resonance to dull her sense of smell.
While she was busy moaning and maintaining her mask, he cranked the stove’s flame higher than it should’ve gone. The chicken never stood a chance—blackened and brittle before she even noticed.
He let her think it was her mistake. That she’d lost her touch.
But that was the point. This was rehab, his rehab. His rules.
And Kael knew how to rebuild something stronger—but only after breaking it down, one crack at a time.
Freya sat there, the plate trembling slightly in her hands, the chicken half-eaten.
Her calm, queenly mask—the one she’d worn like a crown for years—was in tatters, shredded by his words and the fire he’d stoked in her body.
Her skin prickled, hypersensitive, the blanket’s graze against her arm sending a shiver through her. Her thighs squeezed tighter, the wet ache between them pulsing, undeniable.
She dropped the plate beside her, her hand sliding down, hesitant, brushing over the damp fabric of her pants.
A soft "Mmh—" slipped out as her fingers pressed against the heat, tracing slow, shaky circles, her body begging for release she wouldn’t fully grant.
"Fucking Kael," she hissed again, voice trembling with rage and want, her gray eyes glaring at the locked door.
He’d won—again—leaving her a mess of tingling nerves and buried truths.
She hated him for it, hated the loneliness he’d prodded at, the real her he’d dared to unearth.
But her hand didn’t stop, the sensation too raw to ignore, and deep down, a part of her wondered if he was right.
