Chapter 8
Theo
Shit. I'd fallen asleep.
I bolted upright, heart hammering against my ribs. “Stupid, stupid,” I muttered, rubbing my face with both hands. Between the tossing and turning all last night, the workout with Carter, and then getting pounded into the mattress by the duke, I'd just fallen asleep during a session with a client.
Career highlight right there, Bennett.
The Master's words from orientation echoed in my mind: “Remember, you're there to provide a service. Unless specifically requested, you leave when the service is complete.”
The bedroom was dark, and the Duke had vanished. I touched the sheets next to me. Cold. He'd been gone for a while.
The little clock by the bed showed 10:32PM. So I'd knocked out for a couple hours, I figured. Damn.
My muscles had that good kind of sore feeling when I moved, a nice reminder of what we'd been up to earlier. Just thinking about it got me hot again—how commanding he was, how intensely he'd focused on me, making me feel like I was being used but also like I mattered.
At the foot of the bed was a cotton robe, folded all neat, that definitely wasn't there before. I grabbed it and threw it around my naked body.
Following the light, I made my way through the villa, taking in details I'd missed earlier—the tasteful artwork, the subtle luxury of the furnishings. Everything was probably worth more than my entire life savings, which, let’s be real, was about as impressive as my cooking skills.
The kitchen emerged at the end of the hallway.
And there, standing at the stove with his back to me, was the Grand Duke of Avaline.
He wore only pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips, muscles flexing as he stirred something in a pot.
The domestic scene was so at odds with the commanding presence he'd shown earlier that I found myself frozen in the doorway.
Instrumental jazz played softly from hidden speakers, while the aroma of garlic and herbs made my stomach growl.
Before I could decide whether to announce myself or sneak out, he turned and saw me. His face, serious in concentration a moment before, transformed with a smile that reached his eyes.
“You're awake,” he said, his accent lending elegance to the simple phrase.
“I—yeah. I'm sorry,” I blurted out, taking a half-step forward. Figures, I’d let myself panic at his sight. “I didn't mean to fall asleep. Total rookie move.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “No need to apologize. You looked peaceful. I didn't have the heart to wake you.”
The kindness in his voice caught me off guard. This wasn’t the entitled client I’d prepared for, nor the intense lover I'd experienced earlier. This was something else, something disarmingly human.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, gesturing toward the stove. “I've made pasta. Nothing fancy, I’m afraid, but it’s edible.”
I hesitated. Was this part of the service? Being fed by a client felt like crossing some invisible line between transaction and... something else. But my stomach answered for me with an audible growl.
The Duke laughed, real laughter that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Curiosity overcame my uncertainty. “You cook?” I asked, ignoring how surprised I sounded.
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that so surprising?”
“A little,” I admitted, scratching my head. “Figured you'd have a personal chef for that, like a culinary army at your beck and call.”
I watched him stir the pasta, trying to reconcile this domestic scene with the commanding man who had tied me to his bed and fucked my brains out a couple hours ago.
When I'd signed up for this job, I'd expected to be treated like a fancy escort: used for sex, maybe making small talk about safe topics, then dismissed until the next appointment.
The training sessions had drilled into us how to maintain boundaries, emphasizing that clients weren't looking for genuine connections, just the illusion of intimacy. “Remember,” Ibrahim had said during orientation, “they're paying for a fantasy, not a relationship.”
But watching my client cook for me—this wasn't in any of the training scenarios. This wasn't maintaining professional distance.
And the scariest part? I didn't want to maintain distance.
“At home, yes,” he turned back to the stove. “But I find cooking therapeutic. There's something satisfying about creating a meal with your own hands, don't you think?”
I moved closer, leaning against the counter. “I wouldn’t know. I burn water. My last attempt at spaghetti was a complete disaster. Pretty sure the smoke detectors still hate me.”
That earned me another laugh. “Really?”
“My brother was the cook in our family,” I explained, then immediately wished I hadn’t. Bringing up Casey felt like a violation somehow, like worlds colliding that weren’t meant to touch.
The Duke nodded toward a cabinet. “Would you mind getting plates? They’re in there.”
I moved to comply, grateful for the task. “Is this... normal?” I asked as I retrieved two plates. “Cooking for... companions?”
The Duke paused, his expression thoughtful. “I can’t speak for what’s normal here. This is my first visit.”
That surprised me. Given his comfort level with everything, not to mention that skills in the bedroom, I’d assumed he was a regular.
The man tied knots like a pro.
“And to answer your unasked question,” he continued, meeting my eyes, “no, I don’t make a habit of cooking for people I don’t know. But tonight... tonight is different.”
The intensity of his gaze made me look away first. “Where should I put these?” I asked, holding up the plates.
“On the patio, if you don’t mind. It’s a beautiful night.”
The patio was as luxurious as the rest of the villa, comfortable seating around a central firepit and a dining area beneath a pergola draped with fairy lights. I set the plates on the glass-topped table, then found cutlery and napkins in a nearby drawer.
By the time the Duke joined me, I had the table fully set. He carried a steaming pot in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “Would you like a glass?” he offered.
I shook my head. “Can’t while working. Water is fine.”
His eyebrows rose, but he returned to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of spring water. “Is that a rule?”
“Yep.” I watched as he served pasta onto both our plates. “We’re not supposed to drink on the job. Could affect our judgment. Plus, you know, can’t have the merchandise damaged or anything.”
“A wise policy,” he agreed, settling into the chair across from me. “Though I admit, I’m curious about all these rules you mention. How does one become a... what do they call it here? A companion?”
I twirled pasta around my fork, buying time.
“It’s not exactly something I planned,” I said finally.
“I used to bartend at this hotel in San Diego, was a pretty nice place.
Sometimes I'd make a little extra on the side, fucking the lonely businessmen.
I guess one of them knew about The Ranch, or used to work for The Ranch?
I don't know how, but one day I got a visit from Ibrahim who wanted to make me an offer.”
Fuck, I hope I hadn't said too much about the place.
The Duke nodded. “And what was the selection process like? I imagine they don't hire just anyone.”
“Extensive,” I admitted. “Medical exams, psychological evaluations, training on frequently requested kinks.”
“Ah.” His lips curved in a knowing smile. “And how many clients have you serviced during your time here?”
“You're my first,” I admitted, suddenly way too aware of my pasta.
Shock registered on his face. “Your first? But you seemed so...” He trailed off. “I had no idea.”
“That was the point,” I said with a small shrug. “I’m supposed to appear confident and experienced. Fake it 'til you make it, right? Those inspirational quotes are all over Instagram for a reason.”
“Then I’ve behaved abominably,” he said, setting down his fork with a sharp clink. “Especially during our first encounter. I was rough, demanding—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupted. “Really. It’s what I’m here for. Part of the job description: ‘Must be willing to be tied up by hot European royalty.’”
“It most certainly is not fine,” he insisted. “I received some... distressing news earlier that day, and I took out my frustration on you. That was neither fair nor becoming of me.”
The apology was unexpected. “It's okay,” I said, fidgeting with my napkin. “I’m here to fulfill whatever needs you have. That's literally why they pay me.”
I took a bite of pasta, surprised by the burst of flavor. “This is delicious,” I said, hoping to change the subject. “Like, restaurant quality. I was expecting, I don’t know, fancy ramen or something.”
“Thank you. My mother’s recipe. One of the few things I learned from her before she decided cooking was beneath her station.”
“Your mother sounds... interesting.”
He chuckled. “That's a diplomatic way of putting it. She's very conscious of her position, of maintaining appearances.” His expression sobered. “Which brings me back to my earlier behavior. I am sorry, Theo.”
Using my name, spoken with such genuine remorse, did something to my insides that I wasn't prepared for—a flutter, a warmth, a dangerous feeling that had no place in this transaction. “It’s forgiven, Your Grace,” I said, trying to reestablish some professional distance.
He shook his head. “Please, call me Ricard. At least while we're alone.”
That felt like crossing a line, one of the unspoken boundaries that separated us. But wasn’t it my job to make him happy? “Alright... Ricard,.”
He smiled, clearly pleased. “So tell me about your life as a companion. What's a typical day like?”
I relaxed at the safer topic. “We work three days on, one day off. The days we work, we're basically on standby unless we have a reserved client.”
“Like me,” he interjected.