Chapter 18
Dimitri couldn’t suppress the intense satisfaction that settled in his chest as he watched Giselle explore his home.
It felt right in a way that nothing had in a long time.
Seeing her here, framed against the city skyline, her fingertips trailing lightly over the smooth, polished surfaces, filled him with a possessive sort of relief.
At least tonight, she wouldn’t be going back to that disaster of an apartment.
He had visited her place earlier that day, a calculated move to assess the damage for himself.
The destruction had been worse than he’d realized.
No plates, no glasses, not even a single usable fork or spoon had survived.
Her couch—if it could even be called that—had looked as if it had been to war and lost. After what had been done to it, it should be burned. Hell, it probably needed an exorcism.
He turned toward his kitchen, which was integrated seamlessly into the open-concept living space.
Cooking had always been a way for him to unwind, a ritual that grounded him in the midst of his chaotic life.
He reached for a bottle of red wine, one he had been saving for a special occasion.
Having a beautiful woman in his space for the first time in years certainly felt like one.
“Would you prefer red or white wine?” he asked, pulling the cork free with a smooth, practiced motion.
“Water is fine,” she called back, turning toward him with a small, polite smile.
He arched an eyebrow, his hand stilling over the stem of his wineglass. “You don’t drink?”
“Never.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why’s that?”
Giselle crossed the room, her movements slow and thoughtful, as if she were still absorbing the space around her. She perched on one of the stools at the kitchen island, wrapping both hands around the chilled glass of water he poured for her.
“Because my father is an alcoholic,” she admitted quietly. Then her eyes widened slightly, as if startled by her confession.
Dimitri stilled, his grip tightening around the bottle of wine. “What?”
She laughed softly, the sound laced with surprise and resignation. “That’s the first time I’ve ever said that out loud.” She tilted her head, her fingers tracing patterns in the condensation on her glass. “In fact, that’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it. Even to myself.”
His jaw flexed, and he set the wine bottle down with a quiet clink. “Why?”
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug, but there was tension in the movement.
“Because my father swears he isn’t an alcoholic.
He claims that, since he can work all day without a drink, and only starts once he gets home, he doesn’t have a problem.
” She let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “In reality, he comes home, grabs a bucket, fills it with several cans of beer, packs the rest of the space with ice, and then parks himself in front of the television and starts drinking until he either passes out in the chair or, on a good night, stumbles to bed.”
Dimitri resumed slicing vegetables, his grip on the knife steady, but his attention wholly on her. “Every night?”
She nodded, her expression distant, as if recalling memories she had tried hard to ignore.
“Every single night.” She paused, lifting her hand up, forefinger extended.
“Correction. Sometimes, on the weekends, he’ll start earlier in the day but that requires a second bucket.
And other times he’ll hang out at the corner pub to drink.
” She lifted a finger as if punctuating the absurdity of it.
“But in his mind, because he doesn’t drink while working, he’s not an alcoholic. He has himself completely convinced.”
Her fingers tightened around the glass, her knuckles going white for a moment before she caught herself and consciously relaxed her grip. She shook her head, exhaling slowly. “I don’t think there’s a single day in my life that I remember him not drinking.”
Dimitri watched her closely, his knife moving with slow, precise efficiency. “And your mother?”
Giselle pressed her lips together, looking down at her glass as if the answer was written there. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “She enables him. And she has her own… issues.”
Dimitri had already suspected as much. He had read the financial reports, seen the withdrawals and transfers that made no sense for a woman with Giselle’s salary.
But hearing it from her, the import of it hit differently.
He had always prided himself on knowing everything about the people who worked for him.
But this? This made him want to hunt down every single person who had failed her.
Giselle took a deep breath, pushing away whatever emotions had risen to the surface. When she looked up again, her expression was carefully blank, as if she had decided she had shared too much. “Anyway,” she said, offering him a forced smile. “That’s why I don’t drink.”
Dimitri poured himself a glass of wine, but when he lifted the glass to his lips, he hesitated. Then, with a barely perceptible sigh, he set it down on the counter.
For the first time in his life, the wine tasted bitter.
Dimitri focused on chopping the garlic and onions, the rhythmic motion grounding him.
Slowly, the scents of cooking filled the kitchen, rich and sharp, but it didn’t distract him from the conversation.
“Your father… I’d assume he’s an alcoholic too.
” He scraped the ingredients into a large pot, listening closely to the sizzle to make sure the temperature was correct.
He stirred the garlic and onions, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “And you’re afraid you’ve inherited an addictive personality?”
She let out a slow breath, raking a hand through her hair. “Yeah.” The exhaustion in her voice made his gut tighten. “My mother’s an addict too. And my brother. But his issue is more visible, which is probably why my parents refuse to see their own demons.”
Dimitri set the wooden spoon down, turning to lean against the counter. “What’s your brother’s addiction?”
“Oxy,” she admitted, then groaned softly, rubbing her temples. “And yet, when he’s not high, Craig is a lot of fun. He’s funny and smart, loves to do things, and…” Her voice caught, and she sighed heavily. “He’s… well, my big brother.”
Dimitri folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the counter. “Are you sure he didn’t go through your apartment last night looking for money?”
“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head. Then she hesitated for half a second before shrugging slightly. “I can tell when my brother lies. He hasn’t realized he has a ‘tell’ when he lies to me.”
His brows lifted slightly. “What’s his tell?”
“He rubs his chin.” She rolled her eyes, exasperation clear on her face. “I think he considers it an affectation, like he’s seriously considering his answer. But every time he does it, I know he’s lying.”
Dimitri tilted his head, intrigued. “Interesting. And he didn’t rub his chin last night?”
“Nope.” Her confidence wavered before her expression changed. Her eyes widened slightly, as if some thought had just struck her. She went completely still, then spun around on her stool and rushed to her purse.
Dimitri watched as she dug through the bag with growing urgency. Her fingers moved quickly, brushing aside receipts and keys, before she finally fished out her wallet. A second later, she bowed her head, her shoulders tensing before she turned back around.
“He robbed me.” Her voice was flat, but Dimitri saw the way her hands tightened around the wallet. She let out a bitter laugh. “That bastard stole my last ten bucks this morning before he left my apartment.”
Dimitri put down the knife immediately and went to her. He didn’t think—he just reacted. His hands settled on her arms, then slid around her back, pulling her close.
“I’m so sorry, Giselle,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual.
She sniffed but didn’t cry, though he could feel her shaking.
“He was so sweet last night. He sat with me, ate dinner with me, helped clean up the mess…” Her hands tightened into fists against his chest. “He wasn’t there to help me.
He’d just come to steal from me.” She pressed her face against him, her breath warm through his shirt. “That utter bastard.”
Dimitri’s jaw tightened, rage curling in his gut.
Right then and there, he vowed to find Craig and teach him a lesson.
He wouldn’t have the guy beaten—Giselle clearly loved him, no matter what he did—but that didn’t mean Dimitri wouldn’t make damn sure he understood exactly what would happen if he ever stole from her again.
His arms tightened around her, his hands rubbing her back in slow, soothing motions. He tried to absorb some of her pain, to take the weight from her shoulders. It probably wouldn’t work, but he couldn’t let go. Holding her soothed something in him, too, though he doubted she realized it.
After a long moment, she pulled back and wiped her eyes, forcing a small smile. “I’m okay. But… thank you for the hug. It was… nice.”
Dimitri didn’t like that word. Nice. He wasn’t nice. He didn’t want her thinking of him that way. But if she found comfort in his touch, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Grumbling under his breath, he nudged her back toward the stool. “Sit down,” he ordered. Then he turned back to the stove, stirring the onions and garlic with a little more force than necessary. “So, your dad is an alcoholic. Your brother is a narcotics addict. What about your mom?”