14. Sara #2
I tamp down an unexpected surge of disappointment.
He probably hasn’t had his grandmother’s recipe in a while.
Without meaning to, my movements become more deliberate, more thoughtful.
I stop worrying about getting it wrong and simply concentrate on preparing a version of the dish that I think he’ll like.
Twenty minutes later, I spread the lemon ricotta out in a large serving bowl and top it off with the squash and zucchini.
A mint garnish follows, along with a handful of roasted hazelnuts, a pinch of sea salt, and red pepper flakes because I like my food with a bit of a bite.
Sliding the bowl across the island to Dante, I wait.
As he samples my efforts, I hold my breath, like I’m anticipating the moment when Gordon Ramsey calls me an idiot sandwich.
Except my food critic might kill me if the outcome displeases him.
While he chews, I get dressed and then hold my breath.
Dante finally puts his fork down with a carefully blank expression.
He crooks his finger at me. I try not to curse aloud as I circle the island without protest. As soon as I’m within arm’s reach, Dante yanks me into his lap. I open my mouth to defend myself, certain he’s still pissed about the squash substitution, but he feeds me a forkful of the dish instead.
“Mmm.” Raising my hand to shield my mouth as I chew, I look at him with wide eyes. “Holy shit. That’s actually not bad.”
When he unleashes the old Dante’s bright, uninhibited grin, the world shifts beneath my feet. The smile disappears a second later, but I still angle away from him as if I’ve been staring at the sun for too long.
Clearing my throat, I admit, “I couldn’t remember all of it.” Of course, he knows that already, but if I don’t speak up, I risk being pulled into his orbit again.
He strokes my hair, his fingers tangling in the curls. “I’ll let it slide.” His voice lowers and becomes gruff. “If you sit at my feet like a dog and clean up for me after I’m done like a good girl.”
My lips part in unmasked shock. “You want me to what?”
Under me, his muscles draw taut as he snaps, “Sit at my feet. Like. A. Dog.”
My high hopes for dismantling more of Dante’s defenses plummet off a cliff like Thelma and Louise.
I swallow a knee-jerk refusal. The only way to get through to Dante is by bowing to his whims. So, if my shame is the cost, then so be it.
I slide off his lap and get on my knees in front of his chair.
Dante dives back into his food without another glance at me, apparently trying to see just how loud and messy he can get before I lose my patience.
Between animalistic bites of food and sloppy gulps of wine, he sloshes marinated zucchini over the table and onto my lap.
I stare at the half-eaten mess, so humiliated and angry that I can’t even see straight.
My hands form fists on my thighs, bunching the material of his sweats.
Somehow, I keep my head down, staring at the floor, convinced that if I meet his gaze, he’ll know immediately that I’m not as compliant as I’m pretending.
If I want to earn my freedom and protect the people I care about, I need to play his games.
But is this really the only way to do that?
I grunt in surprise when, a second later, Dante’s bare feet land in my lap.
He’s not paying me the slightest bit of attention, and I force myself to swallow past a mortified knot.
Dante’s treating me like furniture, but this might present another opportunity for me to break him down a little.
Rather than shove him away, I dig my thumb into his sole and massage the length of his foot.
I used to do this all the time when we were dating, and his fork audibly slows at my touch.
For the next few minutes, he eats in silence while I massage his feet and ankles. Under my ministrations, the tension bleeds from his muscles, and I savor the minuscule win.
“Does it feel good?” Not especially original, but the goal is to get him talking and also to remind him of my humanity, as well as his own. If I achieve those things, maybe he’ll hesitate to kill me…and maybe my former lover will reappear.
Dante merely mutters in response. I press a little too hard into the middle of his foot, and his eyes—which had drifted shut once he finished eating—snap open. I duck my head. “Sorry. You’ve got a lot of tightness here.”
He smirks. “I didn’t realize you were such an expert on it.”
I revel in the lift of his lips. Another win. “I’ve picked up a few things over the years.”
“Oh yeah?”
Removing his feet, he leans forward and places his hand on my throat, not to hurt but to lay a claim. “Like what?” His thumb tips my head back, and suddenly, his face is mere inches from mine.
I need to focus. This is about him, not me. Besides, he’ll only use whatever I tell him against me later. When I don’t respond, he tsks but doesn’t let me go. “You certainly haven’t gotten any better at cooking.”
My heart leaps at the sight of his teasing smile. He is softening up. I’m not imagining it after all.
Since his empty bowl proves that he’s lying, I ignore the dig and croon a flirtatious reply. “I suppose you’re a rather distracting audience.”
His grip slackens, and he starts to return a playful volley, but I watch the flip switch in real time.
The abrupt, violent change startles me as Dante tightens his hand around my throat and drags me between his legs.
The floor is so smooth that I slide in place before I even realize what’s happening.
He reclines in his seat, his intention painfully obvious.
He removes his hand from my throat and jerks his chin. “Get to work.”
The dark rumble would normally have a disconcerting effect on my lower belly, but now I’m just jittery. A part of me forgot that this excursion to the kitchen was supposed to serve as yet another punishment. Why else would he let me out of my cell if not to harm me?
I have to turn this around. If he doesn’t start viewing me as an equal, I’ll never be able to convince him to let me go. Practically vibrating with nerves, I glide my hands up his jean-clad thighs. I’m close enough that I can see the way his pupils bloom with desire.
Leaning forward, I press my lips against his inner leg.
The denim feels rough beneath my kiss, but I continue, absorbing how the tiny action causes his quads to flex.
Instead of quick and soulless like he wants, I’m giving him slow and intimate.
I’m shocked when Dante doesn’t stop me. My hands stroke his thighs in a provocative dance.
While my head is in his lap, I decide to take another chance. “If you really want a use for me, why don’t you put me on the medical team?”
His expression shifts from reflective to suspicious before finally landing on irritated. “Did Angela tell you to ask me that?”
“No!” I force myself to calm down. “I know you and your men get hurt a lot. Gregor says people are in and out of the clinic all the time. I can help ease some of the workload.”
A vein swells in his neck. I’m toeing a line of total destruction, but I’m too far in now to abandon ship.
Resting my cheek against his leg, I peer up at him through my lashes, channeling my inner Sabrina Carpenter. “If you won’t let me help you with whatever it is you’re hunting for, you can at least allow me to do this. I want to be useful.”
Rage twists his features as he recoils from the table.
Oh, god. I’ve pushed him too far.
He grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me to my feet, ignoring my sharp cry. The haunted shadows in his eyes pain me.
“You want to be useful, coniglietta?” He kisses me roughly, and the dark chuckle that follows triggers an eruption of goosebumps. “Just wait. I’ve got big plans for you.”