by Lana Sky
I shuddered, recognizing both the dare and the threat he’d posed in one go. Did I have the gall to command him? Would he really listen if I tried?
And if I didn’t take the bait, could I stomach the million terrifying questions still looming overhead? My decision took mere seconds to settle upon.
“I…I’m hungry,” I croaked, jutting my chin into the air. “Make me something to eat. Slave.”
“As you wish, mistress.” He released me and inclined his head. “What would you like?”
“Baklava,” I blurted, recalling how the old chef used to despair whenever my mother had requested that particular dish. “From scratch.”
He crossed his arms, unimpressed. “What else? Surely you want more than just a dessert.”
“Spaghetti, then,” I countered. “With meatballs and homemade noodles.”
“Interesting choice.” He nodded in earnest. “What else?”
“Baked Alaska.” I was just being ruthless now. “And some fish. I prefer to have it gutted, descaled, and filleted in front of me.”
“As you wish. Shall we?”
He grabbed my arm and steered me into the old servant’s alcove. While I watched, he made several calls in rapid-fire succession. Each one progressed way too quickly for me to make out much. When he finally hung up, I found myself dragged into the kitchen, where he shoved me onto a stool and then proceeded to hunt for supplies.
Had I been inclined to help him, I honestly wouldn’t have known where to begin. He didn’t seem to require much assistance as he fished various pots from the cupboards and pulled utensils from drawers. If anything, the bastard seemed a tad too confident in his actions, as though he knew my kitchen far better than he should have.
Not long after, a courier appeared, laden with groceries, and Dublin spread out his bounty over the countertops. After shedding his suit jacket, he set to work. Begrudgingly, I soon realized that my impromptu menu had been ignored. In lieu of pasta and tomato sauce were fresh apples and vegetables, some of which I’d never seen, and a loaf of delicious-smelling bread.
“Should I have you whipped for your insolence?” I wondered as I sat forward, propping my chin on my hands, enthralled by the sight of him.
Who knew the big, bad contractor could make for a capable domestic?
Oblivious to my thoughts, he remained intent on his task. His fingers flew from ingredient to ingredient, sorting them as he went.
“I decided to exert a bit of creative control,” he confessed without a hint of guilt. “Your nutrition means more to me than fear of your legendary wrath, oh mistress.”
I let the taunt slip by unchallenged, unwilling to explore the unfamiliar sensation lancing through my chest. Instead, I peered at the assembled ingredients with a frown. “Well, what are you making?”
He reached into a brown paper bag that had yet to be unpacked. From it, he withdrew something wrapped in butcher’s paper—a large, completely whole fish. After selecting a knife, he proceeded to slice off the creature’s head. As his gaze met mine, something that might have been amusement lifted the corner of his mouth. “You’ll see.”
I crossed my arms. “Fine.”
Damn him. Watching him cook shouldn’t have been nearly so fascinating. The man possessed an alarming skill with a knife. With unnatural ease, he chopped veggies, washed herbs, and shifted things from pots and pans. It wasn’t long before a delicious aroma filled the entire room and I eagerly sniffed, lightheaded in anticipation.
Though, to disguise my interest, I made sure to sigh loudly at random intervals. “Does your sudden concern for my ‘nutrition’ mean no evening brandy, then?”
I was just being petty now, but Dublin was prepared for me.
From another paper bag, he fished out a bottle that resembled champagne at first glance. “Sparkling cider,” he explained, setting the bottle down. “I wouldn’t imagine denying such an esteemed heiress of her customary nightcap.”
Touché, Mr. Helos. Resigned, I waited patiently while he finished. As he removed the final boiling pot from the stove, he looked back as if noticing me there for the first time.
“Shouldn’t you be getting dressed for dinner, mistress?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. “I wouldn’t dare to presume that you eat in casual clothing like some common riffraff.”
Apparently, he too was capable of channeling my mother from beyond the grave.
Throwing my head back, I performed a haughty appraisal of him with a sweep of my gaze. “How could I? My lazy servant hasn’t offered to dress me yet.”
“Ah, I beg your pardon.” He stepped around the counter while wiping his hands on a dishcloth. “How unacceptable.”
I stiffened as he advanced on my position step by dangerous step.
“Can you walk up the stairs on your own?” he wondered. “Or are your feet as delicate as your hands?”
A flame jolted to life in the pit of my stomach. As if fed by gasoline, it spread, feeding an inferno only he could ever spark. Nothing else affected me the way he could with a single searching look. Nothing except his touch.
“I…I can walk,” I conceded, rising to my feet. I swayed. Finding my balance at all was a feat of sheer willpower on jellied limbs.
“Good.” Dublin inclined his head toward the door with a gentlemanly nod. “After you.”
I led the way to my bedroom, where I was alarmed to find that not only had someone cleaned it, but the door to my wardrobe was hanging open, mysteriously brimming with new clothing.
“Yulia works fast,” I blurted, recognizing her handiwork in the delicate satins and artfully applied lace. A red dress in particular drew my eye. The moment my gaze settled over it fully, Dublin had already yanked it out by its hanger.
“Turn around and raise your arms,” he said, manipulating the fabric in his hands.
“Shouldn’t I be the one issuing commands?” I couldn’t even muster up enough air to sound truly indignant.
“I am simply eager to serve.”
A shiver ran down my spine at that chosen word. The hoarseness I thought I’d heard in it was simply my ears playing tricks.
“Arms.” Impatient, he took it upon himself to spin me around. Then he tugged the zipper of my dress down. Gradually, the fabric slid down my hips to pool at my feet. “Step.”
Shivering from head to toe, I took two steps forward, freeing my ankles from the discarded fabric.
“Now…” His fingers fanned across my torso, radiating possession. “Hold your breath.”
I looked back in confusion. “W-Why?”
He shook his head, but his fingertips flexed against me in silent encouragement. “Do it.”
So I inhaled, trapping the air inside my lungs. While I slowly exhaled, he drew his hands up to my shoulders, smoothing the hair from my neck. A tendril of ice grazed the exposed flesh. His mouth? Nuzzling…
Just when the lack of oxygen became uncomfortable, he slid the new dress on over my head. The moment he drew up the zipper, I let my lungs expand.
“Why?” I wondered. The gown fit fine, even as my chest heaved frantically against the fabric. I was breathless—that was why I was panting. Of course that was why.
Rather than some pre-prepared quip, Dublin tugged on the dress, adjusting it. It was only when I turned to face him that he finally relented.
“I wanted to hear your heartbeat.” His gaze was on the violet wall behind my head, his jaw clenched.
“And?” I rasped.
“It is…adequate.” He met my gaze, holding it for so long that I felt senseless when he finally turned away. “Come and eat.”
He made me sit at the dining room table while he returned to the kitchen. Moments later, he reentered with a full-blown meal on one of my mother’s prized porcelain plates.
“Does this offering please you, mistress?” he wondered while placing a set of silverware before me.
He’d prepared fish in addition to an array of steamed vegetables and various side dishes too exotic
to name.
Scowling, I took a bite, fully intending to lie. Unexpectedly, rich flavor broke my resolve, and I shoved in another forkful before I could stop myself. Another. In the midst of my chewing, Dublin pressed a cup into my hand. Aware of its contents, I did my best to choke down the warm, wet liquid before returning to his meal with vigor.
“Is everything to your liking?” he asked innocently, well aware of his victory.
A helpless moan tore from my throat as my unofficial verdict. It just wasn’t fair. The man could cook like the devil.
Once I’d cleared my plate of every last crumb, he made a show of pouring the sparkling cider into one of the crystal flutes that I was fairly certain my mother had sold her soul for.
I took a sip. Made a face for the sake of putting up a front of displeasure. Then I drained the rest.
Barely concealing his triumph, he cleared the table while I stood. From this angle, he resonated a presence my childhood home struggled to contain. In the glow of the chandelier, his chiseled features stood out in harsh relief. Beautiful.
Unattainable.
Who are you kidding, Ellie? a part of me snickered. As if he could ever want you.
And maybe that vicious little whisper was right? I was halfway to the doorway when his voice reached me, low with warning.
“Where are you going?”
I lingered over the threshold without looking back. “To bed.” My tone fell flat, deliberately stripped of innuendo.
All insecurities aside, sex within these walls was definitely not an option anyway.
My mother and father had lorded over this house once. Their prudishness was etched into the wood. Hell, even now, I could feel their judgmental eyes on me, casting shame for the way my heart picked up speed at the low, dangerous tone that reached me next.
“And have me risk another whipping?” He was behind me in an instant. His chill basted the back of my throat and my body reacted. Tightened. Tensed. Craved. “You are to be bathed and put to bed,” he reminded, throwing my own words back at me. “Or do you not remember?”
I wanted to back down right then and admit defeat. He would always win when it came to games like this. Dangerous games. He was a man who’d staked his entire livelihood around sex. There was no way in hell I could best him in that arena.
It would be foolish to try.
Sighing, I tried to convey as much. “No matter how many times we…” I trailed off, exasperated. “It’s like my brain won’t let me believe it.”
But he wasn’t looking at me—not directly. His eyes traced a path up my hip and settled over the cleavage bared by the low neckline of my dress. My heart lurched against my rib cage as if trying to save itself from the onslaught of sensation that assaulted me. Too late. Heat blossomed in my veins. My throat went dry. Moisture gathered in sensual places.
But one word from him made my belly clench, all thoughts of doubt and propriety forgotten.
“Upstairs.”
I turned automatically and staggered toward the staircase. He followed, keeping his distance during the entire long, winding trek to my bedroom.
Once inside it, he continued to advance, backing me toward my bed. His eyes burned too damn brightly. Maintaining contact for long was impossible. I tore my gaze down to his chest, seeking a reprieve. I found one. The contours of his body strained beneath his shirt, hypnotizing me with every shift in fabric as he came closer…
Closer…
An icy finger lifted my chin, forcing me to look up. His expression was guarded again, devoid of even the smugness I’d come to associate with him. When his lips finally parted, all he said was, “Is there anything else I can do for you, mistress?”
My answer rode a gasp. “P-Put…put me to bed.”
In return, he seized the front of my dress and yanked, ripping the material without the aid of Yulia’s tricks. The next second, he had me against the wall, his lips on mine, and there was nothing left to think about or worry over.
He controlled every motion, guiding my lips apart with his own to coax my tongue into submission. Coaxing—that was the only way to describe it. He teased the shame away, reawakening all those strange, unfamiliar sensations. I panted, breathless in the aftermath. Mindless.
Starving in an entirely different way than I’d been earlier.
When he finally did “put me to bed,” it was in the literal sense. My back struck the mattress. He followed, settling over me, nudging my legs apart. Like a true subservient, he stripped down entirely for my benefit, watching as my lips parted and my eyes widened at every inch of chiseled muscle revealed.
Then he lunged into my touch, offering up his body to explore as I wished.
The mattress moaned beneath our combined weight, obscuring any sounds smothered into the sheets.
And my poor parents could only watch on in despair from beyond the grave.
Master and Protector
The next morning, I woke up alone. Ruffled sheets betrayed that someone had shared the bed with me during most of the night, leaving recently enough that the space beside me still resonated with their chill. I sighed, smelling him in the sheets, his scent mingling with mine.
For now, a voice hissed at the back of my skull.
I rolled onto my side to escape it, but doubt nibbled away at the pleasurable ache dissipating from my limbs.
For now… But how long until you drive him away again?
“Stop,” I scolded myself out loud, rising to my feet.
After dressing in a plain gray shift, I descended the steps and found Dublin lurking in the foyer. He was wearing black now and my tongue darted along my bottom lip in appreciation. Damn that color. It emphasized his eyes like nothing else.
And as they flickered in my direction, that terrible, doubting voice went silent.
“You there, servant.” I pointed at him, my chin in the air. “I’m famished. Make me something to eat.”
He inclined his head graciously in mock servitude. “What would you like, mistress?”
“I want…” As I descended the remainder of the steps, my hand shot out, demanding assistance.
He stepped forward, cradling my palm against his—but then my act slipped as my stomach growled. I truly was hungry, and even the prospect of spending hours watching him slave over a meal was no match.
“Grilled cheese,” I blurted, naming one of the few meals that even I knew didn’t require much fuss.
He raised an eyebrow. “In lieu of filet mignon and braised leg of lamb?”
I’d surprised him. Triumph left me beaming as he led me toward the kitchen.
“Yes, and not only that,” I added, stroking my chin. Cooking the meal himself would be far too easy. This time, I had another challenge in mind. “I want you to teach me how to make it.”
“As you wish,” he agreed. “I’m sure even someone of your delicate nature can learn how to slice a loaf of bread.”
I grinned wickedly; the poor man had no idea how daunting a challenge he’d just undertaken.
“Even slices,” Dublin instructed.
I chafed at how damn patient he managed to sound—despite the fact that I’d already butchered at least two loaves of bread. Relentlessly gentle, his fingers slid over my spine as he adjusted my grip on the blade with his opposite hand. I tried not to agonize over what served to be my fifth attempt.
“Try again.”
“Okay…” I inhaled with determination and lowered the blade. What began as a semi-clean slice quickly resulted in a deformed chunk of mush as the knife slipped and smashed the loaf entirely. “Damn it!” I tossed the blade aside and tore at my hair. “I give up!”
My own challenge be damned.
Ironically, this task had proved to frustrate me more than Dublin. And the more aggravated I became, the more insufferably patient he seemed determined to be.
“Try again.” He returned the knife to my hand, sealing his grip over mine. Parting, his lips brushed my throat as he warned, “You apply far too much press
ure. Now”—he positioned what little bit of bread remained before me—“all you need to do is guide it…”
He flexed our combined grip and the result was a perfectly uniform slice.
“Now, you.”
I did my best to copy his easy, effortless motion. Lost in concentration, I closed my eyes midway and reopened them only when the blade hit the cutting board.
“Finally!” I exclaimed in relief. My prize wasn’t as neat as his, but at least it was useable.
“Good. And now for the next step.” Dublin moved to a different section of the counter and coated the slices in butter. Then he slipped a slice of cheese in between them and fried the creation in a hot pan.
I grinned with unabashed pride as he finally placed the meal on a plate. “Next time, I want you to teach me how to fillet a fish,” I joked as I followed him into the dining room.
He had enough sense not to respond.
While I’d been distracted during the bread debacle, he must have conjured up the steaming bowl of tomato soup, which he placed beside me as well. One sniff and I registered the unusually salty undertones to the tomato aroma. It betrayed an ingredient not found in most variations of the dish.
“Where’s Dmitri?” I wondered as I lifted a spoon. Given his request to “tag along for the ride,” his absence puzzled me more than I wanted to admit. While he was no comparison to Dublin physically, I couldn’t deny that the man possessed more than enough skill in manipulation to be a threat nonetheless.
And while my sanity wasn’t the healthiest to begin with, I’d never heard voices.
Certainly none so persistent. So insidious. Even as I ate, a cruel taunt echoed on the outskirts of my thoughts. He doesn’t want you…
Clearing my throat, I pushed the unease aside and refocused on Dublin. “Don’t tell me his promise for ‘answers’ turned out to be yet another lie?”
“He’s around,” Dublin said coldly. “He’ll return soon enough. I won’t have him toy with your hopes again. Therefore, I suggested that he ensure his information be accurate before sharing it.”
