Chapter 11
Elowen
Finally, I find the cocoa powder. I let out a long breath. I’d nearly given up hope of finding it. Of having my cocoa honey milk, my ritual for the first day of my cycle.
I set it on the counter and open the fridge for the milk. They stock this kitchen daily, even though I’ve never once seen the tyrant actually cook here.
I pour two cups of milk into a small pot and return the rest to the fridge. I set the pot on the stove and stare at the control panel.
I look up at the sound of footsteps. A moment later, he appears. He stops short when he notices me.
Before he can ask the obvious question—what are you doing here—I answer.
“I’m making cocoa honey milk.”
He glances at the ingredients scattered across the counter, then dismisses me and starts toward his room.
“Can you help me?” I call out.
He turns.
I gesture at the stove. “Show me how to work this.”
He walks into the kitchen and rounds the counter. I step aside. He lights the burner and moves to leave, but I stop him again.
“Would you like some?”
Yes, I’m a very good person, offering hot milk to my captor. Don’t ask me why—I don’t know either.
He turns back.
“We’re not friends, Princess.”
Is he calling me that to remind me I’m his slave? Such a mean guy.
“I’m well aware, master.” I load the last word with enough sarcasm to sink a ship.
“You don’t like being called Princess?”
“I only like it when my dad calls me that, because he loves me. Unlike you and your people.”
“That love is the reason you’re here.”
I hold his gaze. “Would you not have taken me if my father didn’t love me?”
He nods.
I frown. “And how do you know that he does?”
He turns off the stove, only then do I notice the milk has boiled. I got too lost in the conversation to notice.
“That’s none of your business.”
I scoff. “It’s not exactly difficult to guess. You did a little digging, learned some basic facts about me and my family.”
I know he only knows the basics; he doesn’t know Uncle and Avi well enough to notice the difference between me and her.
“I know more than just the basics, Princess.”
A laugh escapes me at his confidence. I want so badly to tell him how wrong he is.
“Oh, really?” I tease. “Such as?”
“You were set to marry Roxion Marco.”
My confidence crashes to the floor. He knows about Roxion and Avi?
He studies my face—the color draining from it—then speaks, his voice harder now. “Want to know how much more I know about you?”
I nod, stiffly. My heart hammers against my ribs.
“You like him,” he says in a cold, low voice, but his words calm me instantly. He doesn’t know much.
“That’s like saying I like water. Everyone likes Roxion. He’s the sweetest man alive.” Even I like him, and I’ve never met him.
“If he’s so sweet, then why did you call off the wedding?” He bites out the words.
Why is he getting mad about this?
“I called off the wedding because...”
Oh God. I was about to say because I love someone else. Which is true for Avi. But telling him that would be handing him the key to destroy everything my sister has barely begun to build.
I plaster more confidence onto my face and continue. “Because he’s not my type.”
I think his face softens—just barely. The shift is so slight I’m nearly convinced I imagined it.
“What’s your type?”
His question takes me by surprise. I blink in exaggerated slow motion.
“Are you asking about my taste in men?”
He nods.
“Why?” The question comes out lighter than I intended, a flutter rising in my stomach.
“Just curious.”
The flutter deepens; warmth spreads through my chest. I know my body has no business reacting like this over something so simple. But it’s doing it anyway.
“I want someone who can love me as much as I love him.”
“How much?”
Okay. This is officially a mixed signal.
Why is he showing so much interest in me all of a sudden?
Aren’t we in a situation where he kidnapped me, makes me sleep in a dog’s bed, forces me to wear a maid’s uniform?
So why does he want to know such personal things?
And why does my heart feel like it’s trying to escape my body, pounding so loud I can hear it?
“He can’t think about breathing in a world where I don’t exist.” My voice shakes a little. “Just that much.” I try to smile, aiming for an unaffected look—missed by a mile.
“What about you?” I throw his question back at him, showing my clear interest. This could count as flirting, so I make an effort to hide it.
“You look old enough to have kids, but you’re still single.
So what is it? Looking for something specific, or can women just not handle your sunny disposition? ”
He looks away. “I don’t need anyone.”
I laugh softly. “Sour grapes.”
His eyes return to me. I nibble at my smiling lips.
He watches me for a long moment, then turns to leave, but I stop him. Again.
“We just had a very friendly conversation. Now you can drink milk with me.”
He stops but says nothing.
If he weren’t the enemy, my dad would have liked him a lot. They would have sat together for hours in comfortable silence. But if he weren’t the enemy, they never would have met.
This thought leads me to a very important question. Why hasn’t my family found me yet? My father is the most powerful man in America. The king of the underworld. So what’s stopping him?
I add cocoa powder to the pot, glancing at the man watching me. Is he someone important?
I drop the thought. Right now, all I can have are questions, and questions with no hope of answers are only frustrating.
I add two spoonfuls of honey and blend everything. Then I take two glasses from the shelf and pour the milk into them.
I offer him one.
“I hope you don’t mind sweetness.”
He takes the glass from my hand—his gloved fingers brush against mine. My romantic brain sees it through a heart-shaped filter, sending signals through my whole body that something romantic is happening. Goosebumps prickle across my arms and neck.
I draw my hand back slowly, avoiding his eyes. I hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps. Or the heat in my cheeks.
I take a sip of my milk. It’s perfect, if I do say so myself.
My eyes drift to him, searching for his reaction.
He takes a sip, showing no reaction. Still, seeing a man this big drink milk is strangely exquisite.
I press my glass to my lips to conceal my smile, though his gaze seems too focused to be fooled.
“How is it?” I venture.
“Good.”
I grin. “I can teach you how to make it.”
He looks away. And chuckles.
Wait—what? Did my tyrant captor just chuckle? My eyes nearly bolt from their sockets as I take in his smiling face. My god. He has such a gorgeous, beautiful, handsome, cute dimple.
His smile fades as he takes in my utterly shocked expression.
In my daze, I inch closer, lift my hand, and gently nudge the corner of his lip with my fingertip. My eyes lock onto his cheek. I need to see that dimple again. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in this lifetime.
“Smile,” I say lowly, as if casting a spell.
It doesn’t work.
My eyes travel up to his stormy gray ones. I snatch my finger back from his lips. My fingertip burns where it touched him.
He licks the same corner with the tip of his tongue.
I nearly melt right there. That’s so hot.
Even though I’m at the 180-degree opposite of my ovulation phase, my body refuses to behave.
My eyes move on their own, drinking in every sexy detail of him—broad shoulders, a shirt straining over his biceps and chest. And when he lifts the glass to his mouth, the fabric pulls tight over his forearms.
I shake my head slightly. What was in that milk? There has to be something in it. Because now, even his gloves look sexy to me.
Stop it, Elowen. He’s your godforsaken kidnapper.
I finish my milk in one gulp, cross to the sink, and set the glass down. Then I grab the pot and blender, drop them in, and run the water.
I feel him move closer. Behind me.
I reach for the glass under the water. He turns the tap off. His arm brushes mine in the process.
He’s standing behind me. Close enough that I can feel the heat of his chest against my back. Through our clothes.
“No need to do that,” he murmurs above my head, withdrawing his hand.
Goosebumps ripple across my skin again. I set the glass down and lower my hands.
I don’t turn until I hear him go.
I press my palm to my chest. My heart pounds, rapid and loud against my hand.
He shouldn’t act nice around me. It’s not good for my heart.
Salvario
After hours of thinking, I’ve reached a conclusion.
I won’t torture Alexander Bennett through his daughter.
I’ll kill him instead.
That’s the best of both situations. I get my revenge. And I don’t have to shatter her to claim it.
I reach Bruno’s room. He’s sleeping next to her. I settle onto the couch. He rises quietly and pads over.
“Traitor.” I stroke his head anyway.
He takes my hand between his teeth and tugs. I rise and let him guide me to her.
He leaves me standing there. Circles the bed. Presses his nose to her right hand. I narrow my eyes. So this dog only came to me to have her bandage changed.
I look at her. Then at him. What has she done to him to make him like this?
The same thing she’s done to you. The question answers itself.
With how I am right now, Bruno isn’t to blame. It’s entirely this woman’s fault.
I walk out. Bruno follows. In the kitchen, I grab the first aid kit and carry it back to his room, him at my heels the whole way.
I lower myself to the floor beside her. Take her hand. Remove the old bandage. Clean her palm. Apply ointment. Wrap it fresh.
I don’t let go when I’m done. I hold her hand between both of mine, my eyes tracing the calm lines of her sleeping face.