Chapter 3
Fire is my canvas and my muse—a force that breathes life into my hungry soul and sets my imagination ablaze. I smooth the front of my chef’s jacket. It’s time to start dinner.
My preparations begin with the stacking of logs. Today, I’m working with oak and cherry. Despite the joint ownership of the cabin, the kitchen is mine. Years ago, I tore out the old appliances, keeping only my grandmother’s comal for cooking the perfect tortilla. I built this hearth, brick by brick, until it was waist height and an arm and a half deep, and it’s been mine to care for and clean ever since. I grab the first log, its rough bark scraping against my palm as I place it in the cast iron grate.
Always know how and when you’ll stop a fire before you start it.
The words ring like a gong in my head, recalling words of wisdom passed to me by the demon who pulled me from the burning shed all those years ago. I started the fire that almost killed me, and to this day, I hear him every time I touch something I intend to burn. With a glance behind me, I confirm the fire extinguisher is close by. My plan is to let these logs burn down to cooking coals, but should I need it, I have the extinguisher.
Once the logs are stacked, I crumple sheets of paper and shove the wads under the grate. The pages come from a cardboard box that contains the scraps of my dreams. My earliest notes are in there, as are the floor plans and the concept drawings I sketched for an entirely open-flame kitchen restaurant. But what I’m burning today aren’t drawings. These pages are from the contract Ryan and I signed, a binding agreement that, in the end, bound me more than him. He was supposed to be my financial backer, yet somehow, when he walked away halfway through renovations, I was the one on the hook for a broken lease and a slew of unpaid bills.
I click the lighter, click, click, just to test it before I unclip my kitchen timer from my jacket and set it for ten minutes. An extra safeguard. I’ve only ever been mesmerized by fire the one time, but the feel of it is sharp and clear in my mind. I was so completely lost and enthralled by my little bucket fire that it grew into a shed fire without my noticing until my sleeve caught.
Click.I light the paper, and as I watch the flames catch, I feel a similar spark within me. It warms my skin. The first tendrils of delicate smoke reach my nostrils, and I inhale the familiar aroma of danger and fascination.
“I smell fire.” An unexpected voice, dark and smooth, startles me, and I let out a surprised warble I’m not proud of and spin around. I’d forgotten about my unwelcome guest. Samite is standing in my kitchen, horns shined up with oil, his hair and beard neatly groomed. He’s wearing the red robe I left for him, if only just. The belt is so loosely tied that the opening gapes at me. I gape back as warmth trickles down the center of my body.
His torso, to borrow a phrase, is a prized feature worthy of bragging about. Without thinking, I suck in a breath and let out a low whistle. The smooth plane of his abdomen is an alluring texture, and my tongue darts against the back of my teeth, imagining what a nice, long lick would feel like.
“What are you burning besides holes in my chest?” He’s being smug, and the spell is broken. I come to, grateful for the snap back to reality. He may be a feast for the senses but given that there’s no escape for either of us for the foreseeable future, it’s probably best not to indulge.
“I’m starting on dinner,” I say and turn back to the hearth. I crumple a few more wads of paper and shove them, one by one, under the grate.
“Good, I’m famished,” he says, and I feel the tickle of his breath on my hair. He’s come up behind me, close enough to look over my shoulder. “Do you have anything I could nibble on while I wait?” I feel his warmth pass to me, and the magnetic pull that unerringly draws me to fire, shifts direction, rocking me back on my heels. I bump against him, the barest of touches, but it sizzles over my skin all the way down to my toes. It’s—unnerving.
“You have towels to wash,” I say, but there’s a thin quaver in my voice that robs it of my usual firmness.
“I thought I might work off the robe and toiletries first. I’ve just had a very interesting idea of how I’d like to repay you. Would you like to hear it?” His voice is thick with promise and oh so close to that sensitive spot on my neck. If I tilt my head, would he lick me? Bite me? My pulse spikes.
I could let him take a nibble. He’s asking so nicely, after all. I’m about to tilt my head, but he moves first, shifting to whisper into my other ear, “I have a generous first offer, but you should know, anything you want is on the table.” I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my scarred cheek, and a cold shiver runs over my skin as I recall the look on Ryan’s face the last time I saw him, a mix of confusion and revulsion.
I step sideways and turn to face Samite, opening a gap between us. “Do you have any dietary restrictions?” I ask.
He gives me a puzzled but thoroughly intrigued look. He misunderstands me.
“Allergies or aversions to specific foods,” I clarify.
“I know what dietary restrictions are,” he says with a bemused smile that tells me he’s still puzzling out where I’m going with this.
“I have a six-course tasting menu planned, and I need to know if there’s anything you don’t eat.”
“Virgin pussy. I don’t eat it.” He says, resting a hip against the butcher block island. “Too high in sodium.”
My lip trembles as I fight back a smile. I fail, and I smile for a half second before I wrestle it off my face and give a perfunctory food service industry nod. “I’ll make a note and have your dinner adjusted accordingly.”
“I’m very adventurous otherwise. Please make a note of that as well. Tell the chef I’d rather she not be too gentle. My mouth is hers to do with as she pleases.”
“Also noted.” I’m still clamping down hard on a smile. It’s just tawdry, flirty banter, so why do I like it so much? I do love an adventurous eater, for one. I’d pegged him for picky, and I’m relieved to be wrong. That would have ruined my whole menu, but now my mind is churning, and excitement is bubbling. Adventurous, hmm? Let’s test that, shall we?
I grab my leather knife roll from under the counter and unroll it across the butcher block, selecting my eight-inch blade. Time to start chopping. I make quick work of the alliums: shallot minced, red onion diced, leeks chopped. They get scooped into three separate bowls and are ready for later use.
Samite makes a noise, and I look up. Knife work, like fire, has a way of absorbing my attention. I’d nearly forgotten him again.
“The jacket.” He nods at me. “It’s not just another poor fashion choice, is it? You’re an actual chef.” Poor fashion choice? Rude.
“Towels,” I say, steely and firm. My voice is back.
“Yes, Chef.” I’ve heard the phrase a hundred times a night in a professional kitchen, but when Samite says it, I blush. His voice is silky and low, and he draws out the two words like he’s licking them in naughty ways.
I meet his eyes, so black and smoldering that for a moment, I think I see a wisp of smoke coming from the corners. It’s so sexy, it steals my breath. I stop chopping and lay down my knife, my hand trembling. The words “say it again” are right on the tip of my tongue when the kitchen timer goes off.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“A task alarm,” I say, not looking at him as I fish it out of my pocket and turn it off. “I have a lot of work to do for dinner.” I turn around even though everything I need to prep is on the butcher block behind me. What am I doing? I ask myself as I stare into the sink.
“I’ll get the towels done,” he says, and I hear him exit the back door.
I scraped him off the ice and brought him into my home only a few hours ago without even thinking that the nearest neighbors live miles away. If I was smart, I’d quit ogling him. He’s a complete stranger, and though I doubt it, he could be a dangerous criminal. I never ruled that out.
“Holy fuck, it’s freezing out here!” he shouts, and I chuckle. He pops his head back through the door. “The washtub has ice floating in it?” The question is in his shrug. He doesn’t know what to do.
“Add some hot water from the tap.” I nod to the sink. There should be a little hot water left, enough to de-ice the washtub at least.
He brings the tub in, his robe gaping even wider than before, and I try not to look, I really do, but my eyes keep darting to his belt, willing it to slip that last little bit and fall open.
I shake my head and return to my chopping. I’m not ready for this. I haven’t been naked in front of someone since Ryan, and the way he looked at me, well, let’s just say I never want anyone to look at me that way again.
When the basin is full, Samite carries it back outside. He trips or bumps against something and splash! I hear water hit the deck, followed by a string of curse words, and I chuckle again.
He bursts back through the door, stark naked (a Christmas miracle), and there’s practically an audible click, click, click as my mind snaps pictures like I’m a paparazzo. But I also have to fight not to laugh. He’s radiating outrage and holding his sopping-wet robe at arm’s length. “What do I do with this?” For a demon, he can come across as rather helpless.
“Hang it in the bathroom,” I say. He stomps off and stomps back a moment later.
“I have nothing to wear.”
“I see that,” I say, biting back a smile. “Would you like to bargain for some clothing?”
“Terms?” he says, crossing his arms, no hint of his playful flirting from earlier, but he also doesn’t shrink from my gaze. In fact, he squares up his hips to face me dead on. Maybe I shouldn’t offer a deal and let him stay naked as a special holiday treat to me. I’d take that over cookies, or sugar plums, or marshmallows bobbing in chocolate. I’m nibbling at my lip as I eye his package when he grumbles something, and I snap to. Damn it. I’ve got to stop this.
“I could use another pair of hands in the kitchen. I’ll give you a shirt and pants in exchange for your assistance, plus dishes after.”
“Why dishes? Shouldn’t helping you cook be enough?”
I shake my head no. “For one, you probably won’t be much help, and two, you want to eat as well, don’t you?”
“Is there a machine?”
“A dishwasher? Nope. You’re it.” What does it say about me that I enjoy his look of irritated disappointment? He snorts, and it’s very hard not to crack a smile, but I manage it.
“Half the dishes,” he counter offers, and because the sight of him has me feeling just a teensy bit merry and bright, I accept his terms.
“Half the dishes. Deal.”
He hates the clothes he’s wearing, hates them so much that I cannot keep a straight face. I’m delighted by every irritated grumble and scratch. It tickles me in ways I can’t explain, and by the time we’re done with dinner prep, I’m practically drunk on it.
“Quit laughing,” he says for the hundredth time, but he’s walking around like a cat with a piece of tape stuck to its back. How am I supposed to not laugh?
“You’ve really never worn plaid or jeans?” I ask.
“These are not jeans. They’re denim-colored burlap. And no, I have never, ever worn plaid. It’s hideous, and it chafes as bad as these so-called jeans.”
“So salty,” I tease. “You’re going to over season my dish.” I grab the bowl from his hands and tell him to take a seat at the island. “It’s time to eat.”
When this menu first formed in my mind, it was a highly technical, sophisticated dinner for one, a private symphony for my solitude. But now that I have an audience, something a little more lively and surprising feels right. There’s a glow in my chest and a buzz in my ears as I plate the first course. This dinner is no longer a meal. It’s a production, un baile de los sentidos.
I present Samite his amuse-bouche in a small bronze bowl of glowing red coals with a skewer of quail hearts and thin slices of pickled shallot. Only when the bowl is right under his nose, do I sprinkle a pinch of thyme and flaky salt. The herb hits the coals, and as it burns, it perfumes the air.
I’m gratified by his instinct to inhale deeply. I hate it when a good scent goes to waste.
“Where’s yours?” he asks, and I hear him swallow down a mouth full of spit. Another gratifying sight. I’ve made his mouth water.
“Right here.” I place my own bowl of coals on the counter. I strip off my chef jacket and set it aside, and we lock eyes for just a moment before we each pick up our skewer and devour our tiny morsel.
He groans, a deep and throaty sound. “Damn, that’s good.” His eyes close as he finishes chewing. When they open again, he grins at me, a wolfish grin with the points of his teeth peeking out from behind his lips. “What’s next?”
We move from course to course, and there’s flame and pageantry at each stage of our progression. Dining is all about enjoyment, and Samite is very good at enjoying himself. He’s the perfect audience—attentive, hungry, and eager. When the flames dance, so do his beautiful black eyes. When his food is ingested, he makes throaty, appreciative noises that sing in my ears. I’ve cooked my way through many a good dinner service with pride and satisfaction, but this one feels different. My senses are dialed way up. It’s like there’s a mystery spice floating in the air that both sharpens my pallet and heats my blood.
“It’s time for dessert.”
He growls in anticipation, and a thrill runs up my spine as I turn back to the fire, ready to perform my last act. Cinnamon tossed on the flames, a melt-away chocolate dome, bits of smoked toffee, raspberry gelee, and a vanilla custard that is so silky and rich that it feels like it’s coming on your tongue. It’s the texture that always left my guests weak in the knees. I ignore my own dessert as I watch Samite take his first bite. I hold my breath.
His lips close over his spoon, wrapping it in a way that makes me a touch jealous. He whimpers a defeated little moan that sends a quivering arrow down into my belly. His eyes close.
“I want to do things to you,” he whispers, and because his eyes are still closed, I don’t know if he means me or the custard.
“You like it?” I ask. I’ve become a slut for his compliments.
“Take off your pants.” His eyes open. “I want to show you how my tongue feels right now, and I can only think of one way to do it.” He smolders at me, tiny flickers of orange glowing at the back of his coal-black eyes. Blood rushes, heating my extremities, and my head swims.
“You want to taste me?” The question comes out of me as a soft whisper, and it floats around the dark cabin lit only by the hearth fire.
“Yes, Chef.”