Chapter Twenty-Five The Artisan
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Artisan
Most days, the stale, unmoving air of the house took on the smell of wood and dust. Tonight, it smelled like a steadfast simmer of rosemary, the slow-cooked soul of broth, and the tenderness of meat that slipped from the bones.
Petronille allowed me to witness her cooking, which was a different pace than usual.
I learned exactly how much she loved to cook. Specialty knives and an expert navigation of the flank. It wasn’t anything particularly fancy, a bit lean, but it smelled so good, I suspended my belief in her cooking skills.
She was different when she was occupied. She still had her home work clothes on with a clean apron, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and hair secured in a braid.
A silver chatelaine chimed by her hip; that was how you knew she was a woman who ran her own home. Each chain held another teeny item. A set of small sheers, a bobbin, a perfume vial, and a couple of brass keys.
She laid out another cut of meat, her knife pulling through the thick of it, carving through fat and cartilage and discarding a couple scraps that she didn’t look too impressed with. The cut was prepped and laid carefully in a large pot, then set aside to cook.
I should have guessed earlier that she was serious about this hobby. Her house was outdated, in style and structure, yet she had this year’s Richmond stove to cook on. The kitchen and its utilities were the most updated part of the house.
“I don’t think I can wait four hours for dinner,” I complained, leaning against the kitchen table as she tidied up.
“I have confidence that you will endure.” She shook her head with her back facing me. I was sure her eyes were rolling.
“You know your way around a piece of meat.”
“I’ve had practice.”
“With whom?” I joked.
“My grandfather was a butcher, his father was a butcher, his father—”
“Was a butcher?” I cut her off.
“No, a cobbler.”
“Oh,” I mumbled to myself.
She wiped her hands on her apron, turning around and leaning back against the counter to face me. She took one of her knives, carefully wiping it of any remaining pieces of the meat.
“I wouldn’t have guessed someone like you would enjoy cooking.” I watched her closely. “I suppose you are self-sufficient.”
“Only out of spite,” she admitted, tilting the blade after cleaning it. “I would like to think nothing would change in my likelihood of survival if my parents and their fortune suddenly disappeared.”
“You say that as if you weren’t raised with a silver spoon and an inheritance.”
“Things in this life change quickly.” Her eyes shot up to me. “Some people lean on their upbringing so much that they stop learning about what keeps the regular folk alive.”
“So you cook?” I scoffed at such melodrama.
Her eyes stayed on me, unamused. “I learn. You die when you don’t adapt. What you don’t respect in life will kill you.”
“I suppose that’s fair.” I pushed myself away from the table to approach. “I wouldn’t be opposed to a lesson or two from a thing like you.”
“What makes you think I want to teach you anything?” She lifted a brow, then the knife tipped in my direction, the blade hovering in front of me.
“I think I’ve taught you a few things in our short time together. A lesson for a lesson?” I offered, lifting my hand to hers and pointing the blade upward, anywhere but at my chest.
“Who said your lessons are worth it?”
“You keep coming back for more, don’t you?” I tipped my head at her, unable to hide a grin. “Or do you just want to see me beg?”
My hand on her wrist slipped up to her palm, stealing the knife from her hand.
She didn’t fight, didn’t protest. Perhaps this was a test, the hunger of curiosity getting the better of her. The flare in her eyes told me everything I needed to know.
“How often do you sharpen these?”
“Often enough.”
“Oh, really?” I lowered it to the strap of her apron, flicking it outward. She flinched, and the strap slipped away, the front corner of the apron folding down. “I suppose you weren’t lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know, Petronille, I wouldn’t imagine that you had any reason to lie to me, correct?” I hovered the knife over the other strap, cutting that one loose too.
“Of course not,” she whispered, her hands gripping the edge of the counter she leaned on, making me aware of my imposing position.
I reached past her, our faces getting close as I grabbed an apricot, holding it between our lips.
“You swear it?” I whispered.
I could hear her breathing. I could imagine her heart thumping wildly like a rabbit’s foot against frozen ground.
Her frightened eyes darkened, and she pushed the fruit away. “You have my word, I promise.”
“Shall we make an oath, then?” I suggested, pointing the knife to her left breast, the sharp tip hovering over her blouse.
She leaned forward, pressing it to the fabric; a tiny blotch of red blossomed.
I dragged it once, then again.
“If you turn on me, the knife won’t be in your back, it will be here.” I tapped the middle of the X. “No matter how wrong I am done, I will be honorable.”
She took my hand in hers, redirecting the knife to my peck, dragging it in a neat single hatch. “There will be no confusion as to where you may find my blade or a bullet buried.”
The knife returned upward between us, a hint of red glistening.
“We have a deal, then.”
“This has always been the understanding.” She smirked, leaning up. I thought she would kiss me. No—she was hungry for something else. Her tongue dragged up the flat side of the blade, the red of our blood staining her tongue, her lips.
It was easy to become taken with something like her.
She should be angelic and pure from looks alone, only to find she was much more elusive, so many pieces left unknown, an enigma to be solved.
The only thing she would not be is tame, and that was very good or very bad for my own demons to cavort with.
I dropped the blade, our lips crashing together before we could even hear the metal blare against the tile.
I lifted her onto the counter, and her legs found a place around my waist. The taste of blood was off-putting, strange, primal.
I felt some sort of release, some satiation as my fingers dug at her side, her nails against my back.
She grabbed at my shirt, tearing it open to expose the fresh cuts. She flattened her tongue on it, and the sting subsided after she moved to bite me.
I grabbed her hair, yanking her head to the side to bite back. She smelled like a sweet, like a pastry tempting a passerby in the bakery window, an expensive delicacy. Her skin was smooth like cream; I just wanted to sink my teeth in.
It would be so easy.
No.
So easy to pull her apart. If I bit her as hard as I could now, I think I’d break right through.
Stop it.
Her nails dragged along my skin. Her moans in my ear coming from those soft lips, her legs tightening around me in a way that could trap me here. She was toxic, all-consuming.
I stopped. Against my will, I stopped. Steadied myself. Urging myself to cease before I couldn’t any longer.
“Arkady?” Her voice was wavering, or was I dizzy?
I pulled my head from her neck to look at her, my grip on her shaky.
“I . . .” I shook my head, unable to know what to say. Would she hear me? Or would she use it against me if I told her?
She lifted her hand to my cheek, her fine nails brushing over my skin. “Are you well?”
“No.”
She nodded, dragging her nails over my scalp, allowing me to regain my bearings with no explanation needed.
“Hungry?” she offered, her fingers dancing in my hair.
I lowered my head back down to her shoulder, closing my eyes. I could feel the tension melting like the fat on the meat she was cooking. For once, the fever of destruction was tamed without even the least bit of interference.
“That must be it,” I whispered, but I didn’t let go. My arms engulfed her waist, and I let my eyes rest for a few precious moments.
I needed to remember this sense of control. She might not be the ruin I thought she’d be. It gave me a brief vision of hope that maybe I was good for her, and that was all I needed to sustain me.
“Something is wrong with me.”
“Which part? You have to be more specific than that.”
She glared, flicking water from the tub.
“I mean”—I cleared my throat—“whatever do you mean, my most perfect, sweetest wife?”
At least that made her laugh.
Petronille sank farther into the water, the bubbles crowding as she gathered them with her arms. I settled on the stool next to her, just watching as I leaned against the tub.
“I just . . .” She tried to brush it off, but her eyes were glassy.
I took one of her hands, extending it in front of me as I used the washcloth, smoothing up and down her arm, massaging her palm gently as if to ease out her words.
Her lip trembled.
“Petre,” I said. It only made her tremble more. “What is wrong?”
“I liked it.” She swallowed. “I liked it a lot.”
“I would be worried about re-instilling our special word if you didn’t,” I teased, but I recognized this conversation.
“Am I so depraved that I need violence to feel that level of excitement?” She rested her head on the side of the basin.
I reached over, wiping the cloth on her shoulder and cleaning the mark on her chest from before. “It is not the violence you like, it is the control.”
“How?”
“You were in control the entire time. With a single word, it would all stop. You aren’t odd for liking it. A lot of people enjoy control, especially during sex.”
“I never thought of it that way,” she mumbled, playing with a wet tendril of hair.
“You’re just coming down from the excitement. It’s normal to feel a certain way after something so intense. That is why we do this . . .” I gestured to the tub.
“Bathe?”
“More like doing something nice afterward. To give you a safe place to break down, to ground you and remind you that it isn’t real.”
“Do you not feel anything, then?” Her eyes grew sad. “Since it isn’t real?”
“Of course I do. I was just as excited as you.” I laughed, tracing my hand over her knee, the bubbles sliding down her skin. “But it’s my job to remind you that if it were to escalate, in the end, you were always safe. You will always be safe with me, Petre.”
She stared for a moment, not saying a word. She stilled, some sort of sadness still burdening those brown eyes of hers.
Did I say something wrong?
She shifted in the tub, wrapping her wet arms around my shoulders and squeezing tight.
I returned the hug, soaking my clothes as I wrapped my arms around her waist. She huffed a muffled sob into my shoulder. I rubbed her back, tipping my head against hers, and just let her melt into my grasp.
“Let me get your nightwear,” I muttered. She freed me from our embrace first in acceptance of the offer.
She sank back into the bath, more relaxed than before, as I retreated.
Gathering her day clothes, they chimed. I hesitated before wrapping the chatelaine in her petticoat to stifle it. I glanced back to see she paid no mind to the noise.