Chapter 11 Katerina
KATERINA
It's been over an hour and Chris is nowhere to be found. He was everywhere and now nowhere. He's either painted himself to look like the wall, or he's left. I hope it's the latter.
I'm kind of hungry, so I decide to head into the kitchen.
It's huge, and it's empty—not a staff person in sight.
I look around and decide it would be fun to cook something.
I say fun because normally I'm given food, but sometimes at my uncle's I'd make something easy like an omelette or sautéd veggies.
Just little action that made me feel good.
The kitchen is massive—like everything in this house. Stainless steel appliances. Pristine counters that look untouched.
And while I'm a little nervous being in Ares's kitchen, I think I can figure it out. Ten minutes later, I've got some ingredients on the island, and I'm bent over, sleeves rolled up, figuring out how to turn on the front burner I need.
Once I get the flame on, I place a pan over the burner, add some oil, and turn around to prepare some food.
I'm chopping onions when something hisses behind me. I turn toward the stove, where the oil in the pan suddenly spits, loud and angry. The flame catches. Just for a second.
But that second is enough.
The fire leaps—small, but sharp. Yellow flames licking at the air like it's hungry.
Something inside me short circuits.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat. My fingers curl around the handle of the knife, knuckles white, the half-chopped onion forgotten.
The small flame dances around the edge of the pan, feeding on drops of oil. It's nothing—barely larger than a candle flame. Easily extinguished. I know this.
My mind knows this.
My body doesn't.
"Move," I whisper to myself, but I might as well be made of stone.
The acrid scent of hot oil fills my nostrils. Then smoke—thin wisps at first, then thicker. The soft crackle of the flame grows louder in my ears until it's the only thing I can hear.
And it's not just a sound anymore. It's a roar.
The heat prickles against my skin, though I'm standing feet away. But it's not this heat I feel—it's another. Hotter. Fiercer. From years ago.
I blink, and I'm not in Ares's kitchen anymore. I'm fourteen, in my hallway standing among the inferno. The heat scorching my face—my right side burning as if someone's pressed a hot iron to my skin, and everything is chaos.
I'm stretching my hand out. If I can just reach the doorknob—
The knife clatters to the floor, yanking me back to the present. The kitchen swims in and out of focus. My chest constricts. I can't breathe.
I need to move. Need to put out the fire. Need to do something.
But I'm trapped between two realities—Ares's kitchen and that burning hallway—and I can't escape either.
The oil in the pan pops again, sending another flare upward. A towel lies on the counter next to the stove. Too close.
The flame crawls to it, and just like that night, the fire grows.
More smoke rises, and suddenly a piercing alarm rips through the kitchen. It startles me, and I press my hands to my ears, hoping to silence it, but it doesn't help—it's as if it's ringing in my head.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, unsure if I'm talking to the family I couldn't save or to Ares, whose kitchen I'm about to burn down.
My eyes start to blur, tears forming in them.
Beyond the alarm, a smooth voice cuts through the mayhem and pulls me firmly into my current reality.
"Katerina!"
I don't turn. Can't turn. The flames hold me captive.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, and Ares storms into view.
"Katerina. Are you okay?" he says, but it sounds like he's speaking to me underwater.
I want to tell him about the fire, to warn him, as if he doesn't know, but I have no voice.
He looks over his shoulder and lets go of me.
In two strides, he's at the stove. He shuts off the gas with one quick twist and grabs a large metal lid, slamming it over the flaming pan. Then he yanks the burning towel from the counter, tosses it into the sink, and blasts it with water.
The flame is extinguished with a hissing sound that makes me flinch.
He leans over the sink and opens the window, giving the smoke a chance to flee. Within seconds, the alarm stops—but in my head, it's still ringing.
Throughout all of this, I still haven't moved.
Every cell in my body remains locked in terror. My heart hammers against my ribs like it might break through. I'm breathing—I think—but each shallow gasp feels insufficient. My skin burns with phantom heat.
"Katerina—look at me. Are you okay?" Ares asks.
I can't respond. My brain is still stuck in panic mode, but I feel his hands on my arms—not aggressive or hard—they're warm and steady.
His touch starts to steady me.
He steps closer, voice low and even now. "You're safe. The fire's out. You're safe."
I blink once. A tear rolls down my cheek.
Ares cups my face, and his thumb brushes gently across my cheek, wiping the lone tear away. "Hey," he murmurs. "Come back to me."
His touch is careful. Different. He's different. Not possessive, but protective.
I stare at him. The kitchen is still spinning slightly, but he's the only thing in focus.
"I… I didn't mean to," I finally say. "It just… it caught."
"You're okay," he says. "It's going to be okay."
My knees give slightly, and he catches me without hesitation, pulling me into his chest. I don't realize how hard I'm shaking until I feel his hands tighten around me.
"I've got you," he says into my hair.
He leans back slightly, searching my face again and then my body. "You didn't get burned, did you?"
I shake my head. "No."
He exhales, a quiet relief passing over him. His hand lingers on my cheek, thumb brushing just beneath my eye.
The moment stretches.
There's something in his expression that overtakes me, flooding my body.
I don't know if the warmth I'm feeling is still from my phantom fire trauma or from something else—or someone else—entirely.
As he towers over me, cradling my face, I start to feel safe.
I notice his gaze drops to my lips and then back up to me.
I don't look away.
The distance between us narrows. My heart is still racing, but not from fear anymore.
He leans in.
I do too without even thinking, as if my body is craving it.
We're close—so close—
"Sir?"
A voice startles us.
Ares steps back instantly, jaw clenched. His hand drops from my face.
I turn to see Emma, the house staff member who helped me dress my first night here, standing in the doorway, eyes wide.
"I—I didn't mean to interrupt," she stammers. "We heard the alarm and they sent me to check and—"
"It's handled," Ares says without looking at her.
Emma nods quickly and vanishes.
Silence fills the room again.
Ares backs up and leans against the sink, rubbing his chin. I stare at the charred towel in the sink for a moment, and then up at Ares.
"Thank you," I say after clearing my throat.
He looks at me for a long moment. Then, softly says, "You're welcome."
He stops leaning against the counter and straightens up, giving me a smile. "You know, there's someone that can make you—"
"No, no, I know, I just…" I say and take a deep breath, "I like to do things like this for myself sometimes. It makes me feel normal. You know?"
"You start fires in kitchens to feel normal?" he asks with a small laugh.
I don't know why. Maybe it's the stress and anxiety leaving my body, but I lose it. I bust out laughing so hard that it causes Ares to laugh too.
In that moment, I realize there's definitely more to this man than I originally thought.
First with what Calli told me about his sleepless nights, and now this.
He has every right to be mad, but he knows this was a traumatic experience for me, and he's acting like a supportive husband—not the overbearing one he's trying to show.
Maybe both he and I aren't that much different after all—maybe we've both been burned by our own version of a fire before.
Shit, I think to myself as we finish laughing.
Maybe it's time I take an interest in my husband