Chapter TWELVE-ZEKE

“Dude? You cook?” Kian barges into my cabin like he owns the place, strutting through the front door without so much as a knock.

Like he’s got the fucking key.

Which he doesn’t.

I don’t hesitate.

I launch the knife I’m holding straight at his face.

It whistles past his ear and lodges in the doorframe with a satisfying thunk.

He yelps and ducks—barely in time.

“Fuck, man!” he hollers. “I already shaved today, fuck you very much!”

He marches over, yanking the knife from the wall and—seriously?

He wipes it off on my dishtowel like he’s doing me a favor.

“Wash it before you use it again,” he mutters, setting it on the counter like he’s the one being annoyed.

Then he snags a tomato slice from my cutting board.

I snarl, low and dangerous.

A puff of smoke curls from my nostrils before I can stop it.

Kian freezes, the slice halfway to his mouth.

“Okay, so no sharing,” he says, placing it back down slowly, hands up like he’s just negotiated a hostage exchange.