Chapter 19
Sophie
Aday later, I stepped into the kitchen just as the mid-afternoon light slanted in through the wide windows, turning the sea beyond them into a sheet of molten blue and gold.
The kitchen was outfitted with state-of-the-art appliances—not that it meant anything to me. I was hopeless as ever when it came to cooking.
A woman stood at the stove. She moved with a quiet confidence, one hand stirring a pan while steam curled up around her, carrying the rich, savory scent of garlic.
She was older than me, maybe mid to late forties, but her skin was evenly tanned and smooth, as if she spent her days in the sunlight rather than inside.
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes warm, and smiled as if she’d been expecting me.
“Hello, miss,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” I admitted, my stomach agreeing a little too loudly. “And please, call me Sophie.”
I took a couple of steps forward, the cool stone floor solid beneath my feet, and held out my hand. For a brief second her eyes flicked to it, surprised. Then she turned off the burner, wiped her hand on a towel, and shook mine.
“Sonya.”
Her grip was firm, her palm warm.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, and for the first time since leaving the States, I actually felt at home.
“You as well, mi—Sophie,” she corrected herself with a smile. “Would you like to eat now?” My stomach growled again and she nodded. “You sit down, and I’ll make you a plate. Everyone else usually eats much later, after the sun sets.”
I remembered Kian mentioned the same thing.
“I can hold off until then,” I offered, hating the idea of her having to clean up twice.
She shook her head. “Nonsense. You’re hungry. You’ll eat now, and then you can eat again later.”
I chuckled. “If I eat two dinners, my hips will get wider.”
“Your hips are perfect in any shape. You’re perfect."
My eyebrows shot up. “Thank you?”
I hadn’t meant for it to come out as a question, but her comment caught me off guard. I wasn’t overweight, but small wasn’t a word anyone had used for my hips.
“Where are the plates?” I asked, trying to be somewhat helpful, although this might have been the longest I’d spent in a kitchen in years.
“Don’t worry about plates,” she said, nodding toward the table across the room, tucked against the wall beneath a large window. “Sit down.”
I had barely taken my seat when she set down a dish and silverware. “You like Albanian food?”
“So far I’ve eaten everything placed in front of me and liked it,” I answered, noting the absence of vegetables on my plate.
“Who cooked?”
“Ummm…” My brows scrunched, trying to figure out what exactly she was asking. “The restaurant?”
“They try too hard to cater to the Westerners. Now, you eat local dishes. Byrek with meat and a little bit of tave kosi. Now, eat.”
“Oh, I had a tave thing.”
“You didn’t have mine,” she retorted. “Eat, eat.”
Suddenly, My Big Fat Greek Wedding came to mind and I had to stifle a chuckle. I guess it was true, Balkan countries liked to feed their guests.
I picked up a fork and cut into the byrek when Sonya stopped me. “No, no. For that, use your fingers.”
“Huh?”
“Your fingers,” she repeated. “Eat it like a sandwich.”
“Oh, okay.”
I set the fork down and followed her instruction, my eyes closing in bliss as I bit into the byrek. Holy crap, the Albanians had been holding out on me. I savored the food, shooting Sonya a delightful look.
“This is delicious,” I exclaimed. “Why has nobody told me about this?”
She chuckled, satisfied, and went back to cooking while I devoured every single crumb, completely forgetting the fact that I complained—albeit silently—about the lack of vegetables.
I leaned back into the seat with a sigh and looked over at Sonya who was now working on a dessert.
“Can I help you with anything?” I offered. “I’ll warn you, my kitchen skills are…” I didn’t want to say poor, but suddenly my vocabulary seemed to be lacking. “Not that great,” I admitted. “I’ve burned a pot of boiling water once or twice.”
“That’s okay. I prefer cooking alone anyhow.”
“Oh, I’ll leave you, then—”
“No, no, no.” She stopped me. “I don’t mind company, I just don’t want someone cooking with me.”
I chuckled, then sat back down.
“Then we’ll get along just fine, Sonya.”
She smiled, clearly pleased, never pausing in her movements as the air filled with the mingled scents of olive oil, lemons, and whatever herbs she was cooking with.
Her hands worked the counter with quiet confidence—rolling dough, I guessed.
The rhythm of her motion and the warmth of the kitchen reminded me of my parents’ home.
Gosh, it was so long ago that I rarely thought about those days.
“My mom was good in the kitchen too,” I said, unprompted.
“She didn’t teach you to cook?” Sonya asked. There was no judgment in her tone, just mild curiosity.
“My parents died when I was young. My aunt raised me.”
I still remembered that lonely feeling after learning of their death. I was lucky, because both Kristoff and his mother were warm, welcoming, and loving. But it took a while for that hole in my chest to heal, for that feeling of being all alone in the world to go away.
Kind of like I’ve been feeling since I left the States, I thought with startling realization. Until yesterday anyway.
“Where is Kian?” I asked, eager to change the subject. I hadn’t seen him all day, since the tour of the house, and I was starting to think he was purposely avoiding me.
“Working.”
“Here in the house, or does he go into an office?”
“Mmmm.”
I wouldn’t learn anything about his whereabouts from her.
“Have you worked here for a long time?” I asked instead. There were a few different ways to skin this cat, and I was nothing but a stubborn, determined woman on a mission to learn more about Kian Cortes.
“Oh, yes. My mother worked for Mr. Cortes’s grandfather, and I took over when she got sick. Then Mr. Cortes came, and he trusted me, so I stayed.”
“Trusted you?” That was a weird way to phrase it. “He liked your cooking?”
She chuckled.
“Everyone likes my cooking,” she announced matter-of-factly. “But trust is even more important to Mr. Cortes, considering his business.”
My brow furrowed. “His import-export business?”
Her movements faltered. “Yes.”
Now I was certain there was a lot more to Kian, and I intended to find out exactly how much more.
Leaving Sonya in the kitchen, I decided to explore the property. I spent an hour outside before realizing it was way too hot to enjoy the grounds.
I made my way back inside and scouted every square foot of it.
I wandered barefoot across terracotta tiles, trading one hallway for another.
The house was cool, despite the sun blazing outside.
Whitewashed walls curved softly around me, catching the light, and as a soft breeze swept through, a tapestry fluttered against the wall, revealing the latch to a… door?
I gasped and stood there, uncertain whether I should open it. I couldn’t recall Kian mentioning any concealed passageways.
“But he did say to explore,” I whispered to myself while my mind chanted, Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed the cat.
Ignoring reason and hospitality manners, I pushed behind the woven material and pulled the copper handle. It opened with a creak that seemed to echo through the house. I glanced behind my shoulder, almost expecting someone to appear and chastise me, but there was nobody.
A wise person would have taken this as a cue, but something about it seemed so forbidden, and that only spurred me on. At this point, I fully anticipated finding a sex dungeon.
“Wouldn’t that be unexpected?” I mumbled as I stepped inside.
The chill instantly hit me, burrowing into my skin.
I noticed a spiral staircase carved directly into limestone and followed it deeper. Each step was polished stone, seemingly built hundreds of years ago. The light from above faded fast, replaced by a heavy dimness that smelled of damp rock and rust.
My fingers skimmed the wall as I descended, coming away gritty with dust.
At the bottom, the space opened into a low-ceilinged room.
Iron rings were set into the walls, some with chains still looped through them, their links dark and dull.
A thick wooden table stood off-center, its surface gouged and scored, the marks crossing each other.
Along one wall, shelves held neatly arranged objects—metal pieces, leather straps, things shaped to grip or bind.
A shudder rolled down my spine and my breath came too loud and too fast. The stone seemed to lean in, the coppery scent of blood hanging in the air.
“This certainly isn’t a sex dungeon,” I rasped, my heart racing like I’d just run a marathon or climbed a hundred stairs rather than descended into hell.
Then, a dark shadow in the far left corner moved and I yelped, my heart about to crack my ribs and my pulse thundering loud enough to rattle my skull.
A man sat there, bound to a chair, his face a canvas of blood and bruises. His legs were tied and so were his wrists.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to see in the darkness. I couldn’t see his fingers. Were they—
A gasp of air shot from my lungs as my brain finally processed what I was seeing.
The man’s fingers were cut off.
“What the fuck…” I whispered, shock rolling through me.
His head was tilted back and his eyes closed, but there was something familiar about him. I took a tentative step closer and recognition instantly hit me.
It was the man who’d harassed me in the bar.
A static filled my head and I took a step back, but the ground tilted under me and I reached out for the wall, steadying myself.
The man never moved, which must have meant he was either unconscious or… dead.
My backside buzzed and rang at the same time, and I startled, gasping as my eyes darted around the room. The sound bounced off the walls, echoing so loudly it felt like it was coming from every direction.