Chapter 9 #2
Salvatore sets a pot and a pan on the stove and gets out a baking sheet. “Two of my favorite comfort foods. I feel like you could use some extra comfort these days, hmm?”
I can’t say he’s wrong. A pang of sharper affection swells through my chest. “Thank you.”
He glances over his shoulder at me. “It’s the least I can do for my match. Anyway, it’ll be nice to have someone to cook for other than just me. Make sure the lack of outside opinions hasn’t made me lazy.”
With another laugh, he grabs a bowl of pre-mixed dough and various other ingredients out of the fridge. I study his movements and can guess which recipes he’s picked before the creamy, salty smell starts to drift through the spartan space.
My mouth waters, but my stomach clenches up.
I got out of doing more than sampling so many meals my Salvatore wanted to make for me by claiming I had sensitive digestion that reacted badly to anything rich.
This Salvatore has no doubt seen Other Elodie chowing down on foods I usually prefer to avoid.
Having one not-especially-healthy meal isn’t going to hurt anyone, right? It shouldn’t be enough to raise my blood pressure or build up gunk in my arteries—for my glim to then inflict on whoever’s nearest.
When Salvatore opens the oven, sharp and doughy scents join the room’s delicious bouquet. After calling me to the table, he dishes the pasta he cooked onto two plates, sets a couple of rolls onto each, and carries them over balanced on his brawny forearms.
“Spaghetti carbonara and cheddar soda bread rolls,” he announces, setting one of the plates down in front of me. “Two different origins, so they shouldn’t go together, but they’re actually amazing. Just like you and me.”
He winks at me, still with the cocky grin, but there’s a boyish eagerness in his gaze that unravels all the defenses I’ve built.
I can’t help smiling back. “It looks—and smells—amazing.”
“Dig in! Only the best for my girl.”
His girl who hasn’t told him some of the most fundamental facts about herself.
He bustles around the condo, grabbing a couple of candles from a cupboard and lighting them to decorate the table before sitting down himself. Determined to set a romantic atmosphere even though his match shouldn’t need any special treatment to want him.
I matter that much to him.
I swallow hard and pick up my fork. Looking down at the creamy pasta with the tidbits of bacon mixed in, my stomach balks.
I spent three years training myself in an aversion to any food this indulgent. If I wasn’t going to risk eating it, it was easier to outright dislike it rather than having the temptation hanging over me.
Salvatore’s watching me. I don’t want to shun the effort he’s made either. I managed to choke down a slice of pizza for Aunt Daphne’s benefit the other week—I can handle this too.
I dip the fork into the noodles and twirl it around to gather some. The first bite fills my mouth with a buttery, peppery flood of flavor.
A noise of appreciation slips out of me as I swallow. “It tastes amazing too.”
Salvatore beams and digs into his own meal.
With less scrutiny on me, it’s easier to nibble away with little bites that don’t set off as many alarm bells in my gut. The rolls are the perfect mix of breadiness and cheesiness, dense but soft with flecks of fresh herbs mixed in.
I eat a whole one of those and about half of my pasta, and then a twinge runs through my abdomen that tells me I can’t handle more. I may have trained myself into an actual sensitivity after all that sustained healthy eating.
My enjoyment of the flavors must have shown on my face enough that Salvatore doesn’t take offense. “I gave you too much. I only wanted to make sure you had enough. No pressure to clean the plate.”
“I’d like to,” I say honestly, and pat my belly. “What I had was so good.”
“Just what I want to hear.”
Salvatore gathers up all the dishes and carries them back to the kitchen to dump them into the sink. When I follow him over, he makes a shooing motion. “I’ll take care of them later. Elodie Devine doesn’t wash dishes.”
If he had any idea how many filled sinks I’ve scrubbed through in my real life…
He prowls back to me and lifts his hand to the corner of my mouth. “You’ve got a little sauce on your face. Maybe I should clean you up too.”
He swipes his thumb over my skin and brings it to his mouth, his gaze holding mine. My pulse stutters. The clang of need that reverberates through me every time one of my matches is near resonates from my scalp to my toes.
I should step away from him. I didn’t mean to let this happen.
Or maybe I did, coming here at all, and all my excuses were nothing more than that.
“Tore…” His nickname slips off my tongue. My body sways toward him of its own accord.
Salvatore tucks one hand against the small of my back and brings the other to my cheek. The bond thrums eagerly, urging me on.
He’s my match, and I’m his, and there’s nowhere I belong more.
Except there is, there is.
I scream at myself to pull away, but the rush of sensation overrides everything else. My head tilts back of its own accord to meet his kiss.
As our lips meld together, heat courses over my skin. My fingers curl into the front of Salvatore’s shirt. I feel as much as hear the pleased rumble in his chest.
“Figures those other matches of yours would interrupt us when we were having so much fun by the river,” he mutters, pressing another kiss to the corner of my jaw, then the side of my neck. “It’s been fucking torture staying away.”
Another noise tumbles out of me, this one embarrassingly like a whine. Salvatore’s chuckle tingles against my skin.
“I am going to take good care of you, mia amata. You never have to worry about that.”
I’m already throbbing between my legs. My nipples ache when they brush against Salvatore’s chest. I want, want, want so much…
Salvatore trails his fingers down my back where we’re lying beneath the rumpled sheets. He scoots a little closer to loop his arm right around my waist.
“What would your perfect life be, Elodie?” he asks abruptly.
I turn my head, still a little hazy in the afterglow. Our first few attempts at hooking up were a little fumbling, but the mafia heir is nothing if not a determined lover. Today, he experimented until I came a second time.
Now he looks oddly hesitant. I’m not used to how sometimes he seems like he’s a man already, bold and unshakable, and sometimes I see the boy who’s really only seventeen.
I peer at him. “What do you mean?”
He motions vaguely to the dingy bedroom around us.
“This can’t be the best thing you can imagine.
Some shitty apartment in a shitty part of town, two matches who mostly want to strangle each other and another who’s got his head up his ass?
” He doesn’t mention the fourth, who’s dead.
“What would you really want your life to look like? If you could have anything?”
He’s kept his tone light, but I think I pick up on a trace of strain he’s trying to hide. The fear that he’s made a mistake by choosing me?
Or that I’ll decide I made a mistake welcoming him?
I’m afraid to ask. So I just snuggle closer, tucking my head under his chin, and say what’s true anyway. “Having you is better than anything I could have imagined.”
The Salvatore with me now traces his hand along the side of my breast, and I jolt out of the memory with tears already welling in my eyes. My breath comes with a hitch.
I loved that Salvatore with everything in me—and the Byron and the Cole I left behind too. I loved them so much, and here I am—
Salvatore stiffens. “Elodie?”
He sounds so close to the man before and yet not that my tears burst out in a torrent.
I sob and press my hand to my eyes as if I can shove the deluge back in. My throat has constricted so tight I have to rasp for breath.
“Hey,” Salvatore says, his voice soothing but with an edge of panic. “Hey. I’m sorry. We don’t have to hook up. I didn’t bring you here for—it wasn’t a setup. I just wanted to do something nice for you.”
I manage to force out my own voice, ragged though it is. “I know. You didn’t do anything wrong. I—I’ll be okay.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. “Here, let’s sit on the sofa. You just relax. I didn’t mean to push too fast. The bond’s really intense, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, which is even more true for me, for reasons he’d never guess.
He eases me down onto the sofa and just holds me. My breaths even out alongside his. The tears gradually slow and stop.
Salvatore rubs his arm up and down from my elbow to my shoulder and back. “I’ve got you. Everything about this union—we’ll take it at your pace. I never want you anything but completely into it. You got that?”
I nod and press my face against his chest, and then wonder how guilty I should feel about even enjoying his embrace this much. About the desire still tugging at me to swing my leg over his lap and dive right back in where we left off.
He’s the wrong Salvatore, but I can never explain to him why.
Just how much have I screwed him over with the way I saved his life?