Chapter 3 #2
Terrified, Ellie spun in place, a sudden spike of indecision and fear made her wonder how long it would take to get to London and out of here. The jarring scrape of the front door had her spinning, a hand flying to her chest.
Is there an intruder! Has Sterling found me!
“Easy there, little mouse,” Hades said while pulling his jacket off. “I don’t think you can harm anyone with a pillow.”
Glancing down, Ellie looked at the ivory throw pillow she’d grabbed off the couch. “Oh, I don’t know. It may come in handy if I wanted to smother someone.”
His brow ticked up while he plucked his cravat away. “You would have to overpower that person first, and with how slight you are, I scarcely see how you could overpower even a fly.”
She flattened her lips and flung it at him. As quick as a whip, he snatched it out of the air. “Feeling feisty, eh?”
Puffing out a breath, she murmured, “I should have left.”
“But you didn’t, which tells me you have enough self-preservation to keep to where you are safe.” He looked over his shoulder as he strode to the kitchen. “And even if you did, the footmen watching the house would have dragged you back.”
“Pardon—” her head snapped to the left and right. “—I have not seen any footmen.”
“Good,” he said. “They are supposed to be hidden. I have instructed the men to drag you back if you did.”
Following him inside, she watched as he washed his hands, lifted a Dutch pot from a cupboard, and after inspecting it, set it to the side to roll up his sleeves and pluck an onion from a basket.
“You cook?” Her jaw dropped.
He looked over his shoulder, a smile flirting at his lips. “Should I not?”
She shook her head, as if to dislodge a mirage while getting closer. “I cannot recall a lord cooking… a thing. I know my uncle does not—” she came closer to see a chicken, doused in exotic seasoning, ready to be baked, “—nor would I imagine any man would.”
He grasped a knife and, with a wicked spin, began to dice the onion with surgical precision. “I have lived by myself for a long time, so I have learned to take care of myself.”
“You are not a gentleman then,” she said.
“I am,” he corrected while scooping the onions and dropping them into a pan. “But I imagine you think a gentleman would never choose to take care of himself. For me, necessity was the mother of invention. I had no choice but to gain a set of skills many lords see as below them.”
“Cooking included,” she echoed, still stunned at seeing him command a kitchen.
“You’ll probably faint again when I sew a hem,” he snorted while covering the pot and sliding it into the brick oven built into the chimney.
“Can you?” She watched him warily.
“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see,” he said while peeling a few potatoes, dressing them with oil, salt, and rosemary before adding them into the oven.
Ellie felt her heart flutter a little as he washed his hands again. “Who are you? You still have not told me your name, despite knowing mine.”
He leaned on the wall while drying his hands with a slip of cloth. “Is it so important?”
“It is,” she replied, “if we are to be here for a long time. I cannot be calling you Hades for the rest of the time we are—”
A peal of laughter punched its way out of his gut as he cocked a boot up to the wall. Without reason, Ellie’s face flamed.
“You think I am the lord of the underworld, little mouse?” He chortled. “Don’t be mistaken, I appreciate the sentiment. From your lips to God's ears, sweet.”
She picked apart his words. “Why would you want to be the god of the underworld?”
He crossed the kitchen into the sitting room, stopped a foot from her as his hand cupped her chin, and his fingers skimmed over her bottom lip.
Shocks danced along the delicate skin, and before she could regain her senses, he replied, “Because at the moment, I am only the ferryman, sweet. I want to sit on the throne.”
She did shiver this time. “You are a gentleman crook.”
“Such crude words,” he laughed. “I feel that I should be insulted. I am an aristocrat and respected businessman, and while I may have dabbled in the other side of the law, I keep my nose clean.”
“Your argument makes no sense,” she contested him.
“If you are not really in the underworld, why do you want to be the king of it. Logic would dictate that to be so, you would have to participate in all the nefarious activities those… those blackguards continue to perpetuate. Would that not complicate your legitimate business?”
His face went stony, and the dim evening light glazed the harsh planes of his face. “There are many convoluted issues that underline this matter, Evelina. It is not as simple as it sounds.”
“Then explain it to me,” she challenged him.
The chit is taunting me.
His jaw tautened. Oh, he saw through her act: she was irritating him on purpose—and doing a damn good job of it. If she thought her ploy was enough to ward him off, she had better think again.
He tried to focus on his strategy. It was a bit difficult, given that his eyes were straying to her full, rosy lips, pursed with irritation; the inviting divot in the center of her bottom begged for his soothing kiss—or punishing bite.
“No.”
“No!” She gaped. “Why not?”
“Because I have the power, and I like to see you angry,” he teased.
She crossed her arms and shot daggers at him. “You—you—”
“Bounder, nodcock, by-blow,” Dorian offered. “How about rakehell, wiseacre, scapegrace. Take your pick.”
Her face went mottled. “You’re…. you’re a—”
Leaning in, Dorian goaded her, “Let it out, little mouse.”
Her cheeks puffed out in frustration. “I cannot say what I think.”
“Why?” he prodded.
Ellie’s gaze dropped. “Because there is an inner blockage in my chest, built on years and years of conditioning. I cannot be rude to anyone despite the very persuasive urge to call you some very choice names.”
“If you so desire, I may be able to help you break out of that box your stuffed shirt aunt and uncle has drummed into you,” he said, but then turned to the oven. “But only if you ask nicely.”