Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 18: Want a bite?

The kitchen reeked of blood and dust, splinters jutted from the busted doorframe, the counter sagged under a fresh dent, and glass shards glinted sharp in the dim light—a wreckage of violence still warm, the echo of fists and snarls hanging thick.

Kael was slumped beside Rhea at the dining table. He pressed an ice pack to his broken nose—cold biting his swollen skin, blood crusting in streaks down his chin—and winced as his ribs twinged, bruised from Dreck's blows.

His hazel eyes flicked to the takeout bag, grease-soaked and crumpled, fries spilling across the table like spent shells. Rhea sat close, elbow brushing his, her scarred legs bare under his oversized t-shirt—white fabric smeared with blood and sweat, hem riding high over black panties that flashed stark against her thighs. Crimson hair fell wild, sticking to her neck, and she tore into a burger—grease glistening on her fingers, chewing loud, utterly unfazed by the dead thug a few feet away.

She ripped a chunk free with her teeth, then held it out—bun soggy, meat dripping—her amber eyes glinting. "Want a bite?" she asked, voice rough, casual, like she was offering a sip of coffee.

Kael's gaze slid from her outstretched hand to Dreck's corpse—blood pooling wider, boots askew—then back to her face. Her expression didn't flicker—no guilt, no tremor, just a faint smirk tugging her sauce-smeared lips. He exhaled sharp, a rasp that stung his nose. "You just snapped a guy's neck, and you're handing me food?"

Rhea blinked, slow and deliberate, then glanced at the body—head cocked, like she'd forgotten it was there. "Oh. Yeah." She shrugged, a quick roll of her shoulders, and popped the bite into her mouth—chewing hard, swallowing loud. "What, you think I'm gonna cry about it?" Her amber eyes met his, steady, daring him to flinch.

Kael stared, hazel narrowing as he studied her—scarred hands steady, breath even, no crack in her fire. She was fine—stone-cold fine—no shock, no shakes, no shadow of regret. He shouldn't be surprised. Rhea's hands were stained long before this—innocents torched, heroes charred, anyone who crossed her turned to ash.

Killing was her rhythm, her pulse. But this time, his brow creased, a flicker of something tugging his gut. This wasn't some random mark—she'd killed a villain, a thug like her old self, to protect this. His rehab, his Haven. Was it working? He shook his head, shoving the thought down, and grabbed his takeout box—fries tumbling as he pried it open.

Rhea smirked, wiping grease on her t-shirt—another red streak blending with Dreck's blood. "If you'd let me out sooner, your face wouldn't look like roadkill," she said, snagging a fry and crunching it loud, amber eyes glinting mischief.

Kael scoffed, a low grunt that scraped his throat—pain flaring in his nose as he shifted the ice. "And if I'd let you out, you might've been in on it—waiting to bolt the second I turned my back." He dug into his burger, grease slicking his fingers, and took a bite—salt and meat sharp against the copper still coating his tongue.

She rolled her eyes, dramatic and sharp, leaning back—chair creaking, t-shirt shifting higher. "Please. Team up with that?" She jerked her chin at Dreck, sprawled like a broken puppet. "Did you see him? I've got standards, Kael." Her voice dripped scorn, fry waving in her hand like a baton.

Kael's grin broke, splitting his busted lip—pain a quick sting he ignored. "Oh? Not your type, huh?" He chewed slow, hazel eyes glinting as he watched her—baiting, testing.

"Not even close," she shot back, voice flat, popping the fry in her mouth—crunching loud, staring him down.

He leaned back, chair groaning under his weight, grin widening despite the ache in his jaw. "Sure about that? Rough edges, liked to smash shit—kinda your vibe. Could've been your boyfriend, and I wouldn't be surprised." His tone lilted, teasing, hazel eyes dancing as he waited for the spark.

Her fist slammed his arm—fast, hard, a crack of knuckles on muscle. Kael grunted, ice pack slipping as he rocked sideways, pain blooming fresh. "Don't even joke," she huffed, amber eyes flashing, voice a low growl. "I wouldn't let that ugly bastard touch me even if he washed his hands with acid."

Kael chuckled, rubbing his arm—bruise forming, a dull throb under his sleeve. "So what is your type?" he asked, voice low, playful, but his gaze sharpened—watching her close, curious now.

Rhea's mouth opened—quick, ready—then stopped. Her jaw hung, words snagging, and her amber eyes flickered—fire dimming, just a breath. Her shoulders tensed, subtle but there, a crack in her armor Kael caught like a hawk. She swallowed, hard, and looked away—fingers tightening on her burger, grease smearing. "...Doesn't matter," she muttered, voice flat, a door slamming shut.

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Kael's grin stayed. He opened his mouth to prod, but she cut him off—fast, deliberate, voice slicing through.

"You should trust me," she said, changing the topic, biting into her burger—chewing hard, amber eyes locking his again. "You saw it—I had your back. Let me use my flames, and that clown'd be ash before he blinked. Saved your face, your ribs, maybe your gas bill." She smirked, wiping her mouth with her sleeve—red streaking white, a feral edge in her grin.

Kael chuckled, a low rasp that shook his chest—pain flaring, ignored. "Yeah, you'd burn the place down just to prove it." He snagged a fry, popping it in—salt cutting the blood's tang, hazel glinting as he met her stare.

Her laugh broke free—sharp, bright, a bark that filled the room. "Damn right," she said, leaning forward—elbow thudding the table, fries jostling. "Think of the savings—no more takeout runs."

He laughed too, lighter now, the air easing—blood and grease weaving a strange calm between them. The corpse sat silent, a grim backdrop, but their voices bounced—raw, real, a thread pulling tighter. Kael shoved his box aside, burger half-eaten, and stood—boots scuffing, ribs groaning as he stretched. "Need a shower," he muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans—blood and grease smearing dark.

Rhea stretched too, arms high—t-shirt lifting, scarred thighs flexing as she rose. "Same," she said, voice lazy, cracking her neck loud. "Feel like a slaughterhouse."

Before she could move, Kael snagged a bag from the counter—the shopping haul from earlier, forgotten in the fight—and tossed it her way. She caught it one-handed, amber eyes narrowing as she raised a brow. "What's this?"

"Clothes," he said, rubbing the back of his neck—fingers sticky, ache settling deep. "Towel's also in there. Figured you'd need something that's not mine."