Twist the Knife (Lost Kings MC #24)

“Thank you,” I whisper in a breathless rush. It’s not the brisk walk across the parking lot stealing the air from my lungs, it’s him.

I push the door open and turn to the right, leading to the large, but outdated, main kitchen. “We keep refreshments and things here for…guests.” It’s been years since we used it as our family kitchen, but we keep it well stocked.

Jigsaw stands in the center, his head swiveling to take in the dated room. I throw a glance around, trying to see it through fresh eyes. Dark wood, mustard yellow countertops, and rust-colored appliances. An earthy color palette that probably brought warmth to the space at one point but now looks like it belongs in a museum.

“Do you cook in here?” Jigsaw asks.

Why does he want to know? “Uh, sometimes. When we have a viewing, I’ll bake cookies or something.”

He nods thoughtfully.

“Are you hungry?”

He slides his gaze over me. “A little but there’s no time right now.”

Right. Stupid question. I swallow down my sudden jangle of nerves. He’s not going to hurt me. He can’t stay long. They’ve had a rough night. He’s only here to obtain some refreshments for his brothers.

“At least it’s a nice night.” I rub my hands over my pants a few times, then open the refrigerator. “Not raining or something.” Am I really yammering about the weather?

I grab two bottles of water and close the refrigerator.

When I turn, Jigsaw’s resting his back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. I hold out both bottles of water to him and he takes them. He sets one on the counter, uncaps the other, and takes a long sip without his eyes ever leaving my face.

“I have more water under here.” I turn and bend down, opening one of the lower cabinets and pulling out a case of bottled water. Nothing fancy. Plain, generic spring water.

“Don’t worry about it.” The plastic bottle crinkles and pops.

“It’s no trouble.” I heft the case into the air.

“Margot.” Jigsaw’s at my side, taking the case from my hands and setting it on the counter. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I’m stronger than I look.” I flex my arm, not that it shows off anything since I’m wearing a sweatshirt. “I pick up bodies, remember?”

Instead of laughing, he tilts his head and studies me as if I’m the most fascinating thing he’s encountered. “You do that by yourself?”

“No. Goodness. No. We go in teams of two, sometimes three people, if necessary.”

Something buzzes. Jigsaw slips his hand into his pocket and the buzzing stops. “I need to get out there and help.”

“Sure. Oh! Let me get you a first aid kit for Rooster.”

I raise on tiptoes and fling one of the top cabinets open. Instead of a first aid kit, I find a package of gauze. “I can run upstairs and grab?—”

“This will work.” He plucks the package from my hands. “You saw how stubborn he is. Thanks.”

He glances at the case of water again. “You sure you don’t need it?”

“I have more down there.” I gesture toward the cabinet. “We go through a lot whenever there’s a service.”

Nodding, he hefts the case under one arm, carrying it as if it weighs nothing. I scurry ahead to open the door for him.

“I’ll, uh, be around if you need something,” I say.

“We’ll try not to bother you.” His lips quirk. “Pretend we’re not even here.”

Is he being funny or was that a warning to mind my own business?

In the doorway, he kicks his foot out, holding it open. “Lock up behind me.”