The words felt wrong in his mouth. Tasted like ash.
Something changed in the air behind him. Grayson's posture didn't change, but there was a subtle tension now, a tightening of the invisible threads between them.
Neville's stomach dropped.
Keaton let out a soft snort. His lips curved into a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Just an employee, then. How... fortunate."
He straightened his cuffs and asked, "Well then, shall I take you out for a meal? To discuss potential opportunities, of course—purely professional."
"There's no palatable meal out there," Grayson cut in before Neville could even open his mouth. His voice had dropped to that dangerous register.
Keaton's eyebrow arched higher. "Then is there a food you prefer?"
"He can cook his own food."
Keaton's eyes widened slightly, and he turned to Neville with renewed interest.
"You can cook?" A pause. Then, slowly, like he was savoring each word: "Would you like to cook for me?"
