Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
THE ENTIRE KITCHEN brIGADE DESERVES TO BE REPLACED
S tenrik had designed his kitchen precisely for function.
Every station had purpose. Every role had their place.
Every ingredient had timing measured down to seconds and degrees, and instinct sharpened over centuries.
He had not planned on making space for a camera crew or a nosy brother who didn’t know his place.
Which was why Torfi needed to die.
His brother leaned against the dry storage doorway, eating pickled herring directly from a jar while the entire evening prep staff behaved like gossip-starved ravens.
Sigrid glanced between Stenrik and Elise every thirty seconds with a gleeful smirk.
Bragi nearly dropped an entire tray of charred carrots after Elise brushed past Stenrik at the prep counter.
Even Marta, who had once calmly deboned an entire cod while a geothermal vent exploded behind her, looked delighted.
Torfi had clearly shared details. Extensive details.
“Why is everyone looking at us like we secretly eloped?” Elise murmured beside him.
Because Torfi apparently valued survival very little .
Stenrik kept his attention on the lamb in front of him, scoring slow shallow cuts through the fat cap with controlled precision. “You assume he limited himself to one version of events.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
Across the kitchen, Torfi lifted the herring jar in salute.
Traitor.
Elise pressed her lips together, visibly fighting laughter. “Should I be concerned?”
“Deeply.”
That finally earned the grin he’d been looking for all afternoon.
Gods. That smile was seriously addictive.
The bond stirred warm beneath his ribs immediately, responding to her happiness with humiliating enthusiasm.
Two days. She would leave in two days, and his body still reacted every time she looked at him like that.
Ridiculous.
He should have established more distance after the hot springs.
Instead, he had spent the entire day painfully aware of her existence.
The sound of her laughter drifting through the tunnels.
The scent of citrus and berries following her through the restaurant.
The memory of her hands on him beneath the water replaying every time he lost focus for more than three seconds. Which, unfortunately, had been often.
He set the knife down before he accidentally carved through the prep table.
“Elise.”
“Hm?”
“If you’re going to be intruding on our space tonight, you need to tie your hair back properly.”
She blinked at him. “That sounded alarmingly authoritative. ”
“This is a kitchen. Hair containment is not optional.”
“Yes, Chef Troll.” She mock-saluted him.
Torfi made a strangled choking sound somewhere behind them.
Stenrik ignored him heroically.
Elise gathered her dark hair quickly, twisting it into a knot before securing it with the tie around her wrist. The motion exposed the graceful line of her throat for one brief dangerous second.
The bond warmed again.
Stenrik looked immediately back at the lamb.
Coward.
“You’re making hangikjot tonight?” she asked, stepping closer to examine the preparation, the camera lens zooming in without getting in his way.
“It’s the final course accompaniment.” He gestured toward the herb mixture beside the cutting board. “Slow-roasted lamb. Birch smoked first, then finished beneath the salt crust.”
Her eyes lit instantly with interest. There it was again. The bond flaring. The curiosity she demonstrated that he loved almost as much as he loved feeding her.
“Tell me about the rub?”
The question settled somewhere alarmingly soft inside his chest. No one worked in his kitchen without extensive testing and evaluation. The staff seemed to freeze as he considered his response.
He cleared his throat roughly. “It’s a salt mixture.”
Torfi clutched his chest dramatically. “He’s teaching her the lamb.”
“Torfi,” Stenrik said without turning around, “if you survive this evening, it will be through divine intervention alone. ”
“See?” Torfi pointed toward him with the herring fork. “That’s practically a proposal in troll culture.”
The kitchen dissolved into laughter.
Elise looked delighted.
Stenrik considered throwing his brother over the railing. Again.
Instead, he reached for the volcanic sea salt and slid the large stone bowl toward Elise. “Ignore him.”
“I don’t think anyone here ignores him.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
She stepped beside him at the prep counter, shoulder brushing lightly against his arm as she leaned over the bowl. The contact lasted less than a second. His entire body noticed anyway.
“First, we combine the salt with the charred rosemary,” he said, forcing his attention toward the task. “Then the garlic paste. You try it.”
Elise crushed the herbs between her fingers before mixing them into the coarse sea salt.
The scent rose immediately—smoke, rosemary, mineral heat from the volcanic flakes.
Stenrik watched her hands for a moment longer than necessary.
She approached cooking the same way she approached tasting—completely immersed in the experience. No half-attention. No distraction.
It made him want impossible things.
“Like this?” she asked.
He stepped closer automatically to inspect the texture. The warmth of her pressed lightly along his side as he reached around her to adjust the consistency with a splash of egg white. His hand closed briefly over hers guiding the movement.
The kitchen noise faded instantly. The bond surged warm beneath his skin. Elise froze beneath his arm.
Stenrik became painfully aware of her breathing, the softness of her sweater brushing his wrist, the faint citrus scent at the nape of her neck.
Two days.
In two days she would board a plane and disappear back into the moving restless world she belonged to. New cities. New restaurants. New horizons.
And he would remain here exactly where he had always been.
The realization sat like stone in his chest.
Elise turned her head slightly toward him, close enough now that if he lowered his mouth?—
“Sigrid owes me fifty krona.”
Stenrik closed his eyes.
Torfi again.
“Why are you betting on my love life?” he demanded.
“Because it’s become excellent entertainment.”
“I hate this family.”
“No you don’t,” Marta called from the pastry station. “You made everyone cinnamon rolls last winter because Gunnar looked sad.”
The entire kitchen went quiet.
Stenrik stared straight ahead in horror.
Elise’s eyes widened slowly with unmistakable delight. “You made emotional support pastries?”
Torfi nearly fell over laughing.
“It was one time,” Stenrik muttered.
“Three times,” Gunnar corrected from the doorway.
Stenrik turned sharply. “Why are you here?”
Gunnar walked into the kitchen carrying a crate of cloudberries with Wren beside him. “We brought ingredients.”
“Excuses.”
Gunnar grinned. “Also that. ”
Wren smiled brightly at Elise. “Has anyone told you about the emotional support bread yet?”
“Oh, I desperately want this story.”
Traitors. All of them.
Stenrik should have become a hermit centuries ago.
Elise laughed softly beside him, warm and bright and entirely too fond, and he could already feel himself memorizing the sound.
Like he was preparing to miss it.
B y the end of service, Stenrik had reached three conclusions.
First, Elise looked distractingly beautiful in his kitchen.
Second, the mating bond had apparently decided restraint was optional now.
Third, he absolutely needed new staff.
The last customers had barely disappeared up the tunnel toward the exit before Sigrid began packing leftovers into containers with the expression of a woman trying not to crack her face with her smile.
“No staff meal tonight?” Stenrik asked suspiciously.
“Taking mine home,” she said innocently.
Bragi grabbed two containers from the counter. “Same.”
“Interesting,” Stenrik replied. “Considering none of you have ever voluntarily missed staff meal in your entire lives.”
Marta tied on her coat with deeply theatrical patience. “We thought perhaps privacy would be appreciated.”
Torfi leaned against the pastry station eating caramelized rye crumbs from his palm. “Also the sexual tension has become oppressive.”
Elise nearly inhaled her own water .
Stenrik closed his eyes briefly. “I am surrounded by traitors.”
“True,” Gunnar agreed from the doorway where he and Wren had appeared near the end of service for dessert. “But entertaining traitors.”
Wren kissed Gunnar’s jaw absently while buttoning her coat. “You’re both doing that thing where you stare at each other every twelve seconds.”
“We are not.”
“You absolutely are,” Wren replied. “Honestly, it’s sort of adorable now.”
“Stop encouraging them,” Stenrik muttered.
“No,” Torfi said immediately.
Sigrid passed Elise with a container tucked under one arm. “Good luck.”
“With what?” Elise asked carefully.
Sigrid’s smile widened. “The cave.”
Then she vanished into the tunnel before Elise could ask what that meant.
Stenrik slowly turned toward Torfi.
“What,” he said very calmly, “did you tell them?”
Torfi looked genuinely offended. “I merely mentioned you haven’t brought anyone there in approximately two hundred years.”
Elise blinked.
Stenrik considered murder briefly and with surprising clarity.
Eventually the kitchen emptied completely, leaving behind only the lingering warmth of the ovens and the scent of smoked lamb and fresh bread clinging to the stone walls.
Silence settled over the cave at last.
Real silence.
Not the constant layered noise of service.
Stenrik braced both hands against the prep counter and stretched his back slowly until something cracked sharply between his shoulders.
Gods.
Elise looked up from where she was wiping down the final prep station. “Long night?”
“Normal night.”
“That noise your spine made suggests otherwise.”
“The kitchen bed here was designed by someone with a personal grudge against comfort.”
Her brows lifted. “You sleep here?”
“Sometimes.”
“You must have a home somewhere, don’t you? And yet you sleep on a terrible mattress?”
“Yes.” He shrugged. “It’s practical during service weeks and when staff has to stay on-site.”
“That’s tragic.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The bond warmed immediately in response.
Elise leaned against the counter watching him, soft evening light catching in her dark hair while the last geothermal lanterns flickered gold across the kitchen stone.
“Where do you usually sleep?” she asked.
He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to answer. Because the truth felt strangely intimate.
“I have a cave on the other side of the mountain.”
Her expression shifted immediately with curiosity. “An actual cave?”
“Yes.”
“You live there alone?”
“Yes.”
For a moment she simply watched him quietly, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she understood far more than he wanted her to.
Then her mouth curved slightly. “Can I see it? ”
Stenrik blinked. “You want to see my cave.”
“Well, now it sounds like I’m asking to inspect a dragon hoard.”
“It is not a dragon hoard.”
“How many centuries of kitchen equipment are hidden there?”
“That is irrelevant.”
“Elise,” he said carefully, “it’s not directly connected to the restaurant. We’d need to walk through the old tunnels.”
She straightened immediately. “You think I can’t handle it.”
“No.” He moved toward her automatically. “I think you dislike enclosed spaces.”
“I’m getting better,” she corrected. “Besides, I’ll be with you, right?”
True.
“We can turn back at any point,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
The certainty in her voice unsettled him. Because she sounded trusting.
“Unless you don’t want me to see it,” she added softly.
Gods. The bond surged warm and aching beneath his ribs. Of course he wanted her there. That was the problem. He wanted impossible things now. Wanted her in his kitchen. In his space. In his life.
Wanted mornings and arguments and laughter echoing through the tunnels. Wanted her stealing bites of unfinished dishes while pretending she wasn’t. Wanted her warmth in rooms that had been empty too long.
Two days. In two days she would leave.
And still some reckless part of him wanted to show her the most private place he possessed.
“No,” he said roughly. “Of course I want you to see it.”
Her expression softened instantly .
Stenrik grabbed a clean towel from the counter mostly because he needed something to do with his hands.
“You’ll need comfortable shoes,” he muttered. “And warmer layers. Parts of the tunnels stay cold.”
A slow smile spread across her face.
“Are you inviting me on a cave date, Chef Troll?”
“This is not a date.”
“Mm.”
“It’s a geological excursion.”
“That sounds exactly like something a man says right before a date.”