Kael stepped out of the Haven for shopping, a mental checklist ticking away in his head.
First stop: the butcher—for ribs. He'd picked ribs on purpose. Slow-cooking meant more time on the stovetop, which meant more time to toy with Freya during their rematch.
The thought curled a sly grin onto his face. His hazel eyes glinted as he pictured her in that white lace lingerie—pride battling vulnerability in every breath she took.
The market street bustled with midday energy.
Vendors hawked fresh produce, grilled skewers, and sugary pastries, the scent of spices and charcoal smoke wrapping around him like a warm haze. He weaved through the crowd until he reached the butcher's stall.
The butcher, a burly man in a stained apron, gave him a nod as Kael pointed to a thick, meaty rack of pork ribs—perfect for dragging out the cook time.
"These'll do," Kael said, peeling a few bills off the wad Harris had handed him the night before.
The butcher wrapped the ribs in brown paper.
