Chapter 32 #2
“No. But I thought you might need it because you’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes.”
I immediately glance at the page. He is right. I hate that he is right.
“I was thinking.”
“Dangerous activity.”
“Go away.”
He sits down across from me. “Make me.”
I narrow my eyes as he opens his own book. The nerve of him.
He sits back, crossing one long leg over the other, at ease in my hostile territory. I glare at him, waiting for the smug smirk, the arrogant tilt of his head, anything to give me a reason to snap at him. But it doesn’t come. He turns a page, letting me be.
An hour passes. Neither of us speaks.
The silence should feel awkward. It should feel like a battleground. Instead, it feels… comfortable. The steady sound of his breathing grounds the space around us. And that unsettles me more than any threat ever could.
My gaze drifts from my book, catching the line of his jaw.
The harshness that usually defines him softens in the amber glow. He looks less like the mafia king who commands empires with a flick of his wrist, and more like… just a man.
Monsters aren’t supposed to have quiet afternoons.
They aren’t supposed to notice when you’re stuck on a page, or bring you tea exactly how you like it, or sit with you for hours just to keep the darkness at bay.
They are supposed to be loud, violent, and easily hated.
But Zagreus is rewriting the rules, and in doing so, he is dismantling everything I thought I knew about him. About us.
I look at the tea; it’s cold now. There’s no steam; the only thing left is the stillness. He didn’t order a servant to bring it. He brought it himself. Those hands, which I know have held weapons and drawn blood, had carefully steeped tea leaves just because he noticed my mind was wandering.
Is it possible for a monster to possess a human heart? Or worse—is it possible that the man I loved isn’t entirely dead, but trapped inside the beast he had to become?
I hate myself for the softness expanding inside me.
I hate that the constant, screaming static of my nightmares is silent whenever he is in the room.
He is my enemy, my captor, the target my Mother expects me to destroy.
But right now, looking at him, the line between my hatred and my longing is blurring into something dangerously close to peace.
***
The first time he makes me laugh in the kitchen, I almost resent it.
I don’t know the first thing about cooking, let alone crafting perfect Italian pasta from scratch, but here we are.
The sprawling estate kitchen is warm, smelling of crushed garlic, fresh basil, and the rich, earthy scent of olive oil.
It is a domestic, terrifyingly normal scene.
I am playing house with the devil, wearing one of his oversized white button-downs with the sleeves rolled up, pretending that the flour dusting my fingers is the only thing occupying my mind.
It’s just for the plan, I remind myself. Mama said to get close. Seduce him. Make him weak.
But the peace that settles over us as the afternoon light bleeds through the windows doesn’t feel like a tactical maneuver. It feels like an anchor dropped in a storm.
“You’re kneading it like you want to murder it,” Zagreus’s deep voice rumbles right behind my ear.
Before I can snap back, his massive body presses flush against my back, trapping me between his chest and the marble countertop.
He reaches around me, his large hands covering mine, guiding my palms into the soft dough.
He’s discarded his jacket, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the heavy column of his neck and the silver scars tracking across his collarbone.
“Softly, Dolcezza,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my cheek, sending a violent shiver straight down my spine. “Like this. Press down, fold, repeat. You have to be patient with it.”
“I am not a patient person, you know that,” I force out, my voice tighter than I intend. I try to focus on the dough, but the friction of his thighs against the back of mine is making my blood run hot.
“Clearly.” A low, rough chuckle vibrates into my shoulder blades. “But you’re a quick study. Now, add the salt. Just a pinch.”
I reach for the small ceramic bowl, but my fingers are trembling. A few crystals spill onto the marble. I look up, expecting him to scoff at my clumsiness, but his dark eyes are already fixed on my face, heavy-lidded.
“Is this just fun for you?” I whisper, the question slipping past my guard before I can stop it. “Playing chef with your captive?”
Zagreus tilts his head. “Do you think this is a game?”
His hand leaves the counter, his thumb sweeping over my bottom lip, wiping away a stray speck of flour with agonizing slowness.
“I brought you in here because you looked like you were going to burn a hole through my library floor. And because I wanted to see you in my shirt, bare-legged, doing something that doesn’t involve planning my demise. ”
“I don’t plan your demise,” I lie, looking away, but my heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he rasps, his rough palm cupping my jaw before sliding down the sensitive line on my neck. He hooks his fingers into the collar of the shirt, pulling it back just enough to expose my shoulder.
His mouth follows, his lips pressing a bruising kiss right where my neck meets my shoulder, finding the exact spot that makes my toes curl.
A soft gasp escapes me, my hands gripping the edge of the marble counter for support. “Zagreus…”
“Tell me what you want,” he growls against my skin, his teeth grazing my collarbone, making me arch into him helplessly. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll let you go back to ruining my pasta.”
“I…” The words die in my throat. God help me, I want him closer.
Instead of letting me answer, his hands slide down the front of the shirt, his long fingers deftly undoing the middle buttons.
He slips his hands inside as his rough, calloused palms cup my bare breasts, lifting them, his thumbs sweeping across the tight, aching peaks.
His touch is cold against my overheated skin, making my vision blur with fierce desperation.
“Zagreus, please,” I sob out, my hips instinctively tilting back, seeking the heavy, rigid length of his arousal pressing firmly against my backside through his trousers.
He groans, his grip tightening on my waist as he pulls me back against his heat. One of his hands slides down my stomach, tracking lower, his fingers tangling in the fabric of the shirt before finding the slick, aching center of me. He strokes me once, twice, making me cry out.
“Look at me,” he commands, turning me around in his arms, lifting me effortlessly so I am sitting on the edge of the flour-dusted marble counter.
I look. I don’t hide the hunger in my eyes, nor the raw, aching longing. He leans in, his mouth devouring mine in a deep, devastating kiss that tastes of salt and dark temptation, his hands anchoring my thighs wide apart, exposing me completely to his gaze.
He steps between my legs, his fingers dipping into my slick heat, coating them before bringing them to his own lips, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You are so wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Do you want it? Do you want me to fill you right here on the counter?”
“No,” I lie, my fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him toward me, knowing he’ll give me what I want.
Reminding myself that this is for the greater good. I will have my revenge this way.