"You said ten minutes," he replied, shrugging. "You were late."
A hint of amusement flickered in her eyes. "You don't seem like someone who counts minutes."
"I do now." His tone was easy, but his body hadn't relaxed since he noticed something about her—fluid, precise like a panther pretending to be a house cat.
Verity smiled then—slow, deliberate. Not the polite curve of a barista's grin, but something warmer, richer. Languid. "Mmm," she purred, her voice suddenly lower, a velvet undertone threading through it. "That's cute."
Caine raised a brow. "What is?"
"You pretending you're not watching me like I'm the most interesting thing you've seen all week."
He gave a slow smirk. "That's bold."
She leaned forward on the table, chin resting lightly in her palm. "So am I."
Her hair slipped over one shoulder, catching the dim café light in streaks of copper and gold. The neckline of her black top dipped subtly beneath the folds of her coat, and the soft scent of lavender and something warmer—skin, cinnamon, maybe—drifted toward him.
"Rough day, soldier?" she asked, her tone now playfully sympathetic, lips curling like she already knew the answer.
He let out a breath, eyes narrowing in appreciation. "You could say that."
"Well…" she whispered, tilting her head just enough to let the curl of her hair fall perfectly across one cheek, "you look like someone who could use a perfect distraction."
"Is that an offer?"
"It's an observation," she said smoothly, her voice dripping with suggestion. "But I don't mind being proven right."
Caine leaned forward now, elbows on the table. "And what would that look like?"
She bit her bottom lip slowly, teasingly, then smiled like she had a secret he'd never guess. "Depends. Are you the type to follow a woman's lead, or do you like to pretend you're in control?"
Caine let the question linger between them like heat from a just-poured drink. His smile deepened, crooked and sharp at the edges.
"I don't follow," he said, voice low, matching her cadence. "I match pace."
Verity's eyes sparkled at that. Not the wide-eyed shine of someone impressed—but the knowing glint of someone who enjoyed the game and had every intention of winning. She tapped one manicured nail against the ceramic of her mug, slow, rhythmic, her gaze never leaving his.
"Mmm. Dangerous answer," she murmured, savoring it. "Sounds like a man who thinks he can keep up."
Caine shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Only one way to find out."
Verity let the silence stretch for a moment longer, letting him feel the weight of her gaze before she stood, smooth and unhurried. Her coat slipped slightly down one shoulder, revealing the soft slope of her collarbone and the faintest hint of a freckle at her throat. It was almost too perfectly placed and nearly meant to be seen.
She stepped closer, and her fingers grazed his jaw in a featherlight touch—not affection, not tenderness.
Then she leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "Let me close the shop up."
She didn't need to say the rest.
Her smile returned—slow, sinful, satisfied—and she turned on her heel without waiting for a response, hips swaying as she moved back behind the counter.
Caine sat in the silence that followed, heart beating faster than it should've.
He didn't know her.
Didn't trust her.
And yet, he'd never felt more curious in his life.
Verity stood from her seat like smoke rising—unhurried, graceful. She smoothed her coat with one lazy pass of her hands, then walked toward the front of the café without looking back. Her hips swayed with each step, that same fluid rhythm that seemed to mock gravity, and with a flick of her wrist, she turned the lock on the front door.
Click.
The sound echoed louder than it should have.
She turned off the sign next. Then, one by one, she turned off the lights behind the counter until only the glow of the overhead bulbs near the back remained.
And then, she stood there. Framed in gold and shadow. Watching him.
"You coming?" she asked, voice low, playful—dipped in honey and dusk. "Or are you just going to sit there looking like you've got questions you're not brave enough to ask?"
Caine rose, slow and measured. "I'm not the one hesitating."
She tilted her head with that sly half-smile. "I'm not the one who needs convincing."
Then, without waiting, Verity turned and slipped behind the curtain at the back of the shop. Her bare feet were silent against the old floorboards, and her silhouette disappeared into the dark like it belonged there.
Caine followed.
The curtain brushed against his shoulders as he passed through, and he found himself in a narrow hallway that led to a staircase. It was steep and old, with each step creaking underfoot like whispering secrets too old to remember. Her scent lingered here, too—lavender, spice, and something soft beneath it, like worn-in silk.
At the top of the stairs, she waited.
She didn't speak. She just looked over her shoulder, eyes catching the low light like green fire, then turned again and opened the door.
He followed her into the loft.
It was a different world up here. Warm and dark, lit by amber glass lamps and half-drawn drapes. Deep blue walls, mismatched bookshelves, an old record player humming low in the corner. The smell of cinnamon lingered faintly in the air, but now it mingled with something else—something richer. Wine, maybe. Or her skin.
Verity stepped into the center of the space, letting her coat fall from her shoulders in one smooth movement. Beneath it, she wore a thin black robe tied loose at the waist, revealing a bare glimpse of the collarbone and the curve of one thigh when she moved.
She looked at him—not coy, not nervous. Just waiting.
"I needed a night off," she said softly. "You looked like you did too."
Caine stood at the edge of the room, hands loose at his sides, eyes locked on hers.
"I don't do this often," she added, stepping closer, her voice low, thick with meaning.
Her fingers brushed the edge of his chest, the contact light yet deliberate, sending a wave of heat through his body. Caine's pulse quickened, his breath deepening as he fought to control the reaction that her proximity stirred in him.
"But tonight," she continued, her smile slow and knowing, "I'm making an exception."
She looked up at him, her gaze tracing the sharp lines of his face— strong jaw and the lean, athletic build that suggested strength. His black hair, slightly tousled, framed his face in a way that gave him a raw, untamed edge. But his eyes—those striking green eyes—held her the longest. They were intense, piercing, and filled with determination. His face, marked with a few scars that showed the stories of battles, only added to the masculine force he exuded. Everything about him was sharp when it came to his looks.
She couldn't deny the attraction, the pull that came with his presence's raw intensity. He was a man who didn't need to do much to get a woman.
"You're just my type," she murmured, her voice sultry, her lips curling into a smile that was a mixture of temptation and challenge.
Caine's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dark passing through them. His pulse quickened, but he didn't hesitate. He moved, his hand grabbing the back of her neck with a force that was both commanding and deliberate. His grip was firm, his thumb brushing the delicate line of her jaw before pulling her into him.
"Am I?" Caine growled, his voice low, thick.
Verity tilted her head, her lips curling, but before she could respond, Caine kissed her hard, his lips claiming hers with a force that sent shockwaves through her body. His other hand slid down her side, finding her waist and pulling her flush against him. He felt the heat of her skin, the undeniable pull of desire.
He could feel her body tremble against his, the heat between them almost too much to bear, but he didn't slow down. Caine's hands tightened, dragging her closer as if he needed to drown in her to make sure she couldn't escape.
She let out a soft, breathless laugh; lips still pressed against his as she gripped his shirt, tugging him closer. "You're not the only one who doesn't hesitate," she whispered against his mouth.
The rawness of her words sent a jolt of electricity through him. He deepened the kiss, his hands now moving to her thighs, lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing at all. There was no more teasing or games—just the raw need that surged between them, undeniable and unrelenting.
With one swift motion, he had her on her back on her bedThe mattress gave beneath her with a soft sigh as Caine lowered her down, her copper hair fanned out like wildfire on the dark sheets. She landed with a breathless laugh that carried no fear, only anticipation. One hand reached up to toy lazily with the edge of his shirt, fingertips dancing lightly against his chest like she was drawing invisible constellations.
"You throw girls onto beds often, or am I special?" she asked, her voice airy and teasing.
Caine leaned over her, letting the weight of his body press her gently into the mattress. "You talk a lot for someone in your position."
"I get chatty when I'm curious," she whispered, eyes wide with mock innocence, lashes fluttering as she looked up at him. "You're… interesting." He kissed her again, slower this time, and her lips parted with a soft hum of approval. She tasted like spice and something sweeter—wine, maybe. Her hands found their way beneath his shirt, palms soft and lingering, exploring Caine's also explored hands traced down the side of her torso, calloused fingertips gliding over skin that was too soft in some places, too marred in others. She was warm beneath him, her body inviting, supple—but here and there, thin, silvery lines interrupted the smoothness. Faint ridges ran along her ribcage. A broader one, almost surgical, disappeared beneath the fabric of her robe at her hip. Another curved over her thigh, barely visible unless caught in the low amber light.
His fingers paused as they passed over a pale crescent near her stomach, which looked too precise to be an accident.
Verity noticed.
She didn't tense. She didn't falter.
Instead, she looked up at him with that lazy smile, brushing his cheek with her knuckles. "Oh, that one?" she asked casually, following the direction of his eyes.
He didn't answer, just met her gaze.
"I was wild as a kid," she said, a playful little shrug accompanying her words. "Climbed everything I could. I fell off half of it. I got this one from a roof when I was ten. I tried to catch a cat. Didn't go well for either of us."
Caine smirked faintly. "You don't strike me as clumsy."
"I'm reformed," she replied sweetly. "Mostly."
He didn't press. He should've. But he didn't. He lowered himself over her again, brushing his lips down the side of her neck, murmuring against her pulse, "So, what happened to the cat?"
Verity giggled softly, brushing his hair back with delicate fingers.
"He's the reason I like dogs now."
Caine chuckled, and the sound vibrated between them. Her laugh, warmth, the way she met his every movement like a rhythm she already knew—it all felt too good to question.
Whatever she was, whoever she was—he could forget that for tonight.
So he kissed her again.