by Anna Zaires
“I’ll get it myself, don’t worry. Yulia…” He inhales deeply. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” My face burns all the way to the roots of my hair, but I force myself not to avert my gaze like some blushing virgin. “Everything’s fine.”
“Good.” His eyes darken. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t.” I swallow. “Not much, at least.”
Lucas studies me for a few more moments, then nods, seemingly satisfied. Releasing my wrist, he stands up and carries his plate to the sink. He washes it along with my plate, and I just stand there, unsure whether this odd conversation is over. Finally, I decide to leave the kitchen, but before I can walk out, Lucas wipes his hands on a paper towel and turns toward me.
In a few long strides, he closes the distance between us, stopping less than a foot in front of me. “Just so you know,” he says quietly, “I’d never truly harm you. You are mine, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever abuse you. Your happiness matters to me, Yulia. You can believe me or not, but it’s the truth.”
I open my mouth, then close it, unable to form a coherent sentence. This is the closest Lucas has ever come to telling me how he feels—and to acknowledging hurtful things said in the heat of jealousy. Yet there’s no regret on his face, no real apology in his words. What he said last night is the absolute truth—in this relationship, I have all the rights of a slave—and he’s not about to deny it. What he’s promising, however, is to be a good owner, and strangely, I do find that reassuring. Last night—any night, really—he could’ve hurt me badly, but he didn’t, and as I look at the hard man in front of me, I know with sudden certainty that he never will.
It may be stupid of me, but I trust my captor—in this, at least.
Before I can formulate how to tell him this, Lucas bends his head, kissing me on the mouth, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing there dazed… and filled with new, fragile hope.
* * *
We don’t discuss the issue of me cooking for the guards again, but a week later, I get a delivery of restaurant-grade kitchen equipment, everything from an enormous oven to huge pots and pans. Diego and Eduardo spend two days remodeling the kitchen and installing everything, and when they’re done, I have everything I need to cook for a small army.
And by the time the next week is through, that’s exactly what I find myself doing. As soon as Lucas leaves for work, I get busy preparing for the madness that is lunch. Diego and Eduardo must’ve told the other guards that Lucas relented, and the kitchen teems with visitors from ten in the morning until late into the afternoon. And then the dinner rush begins. One day, seventy-nine guards stop by—I count, just to make sure I’m not exaggerating—and I realize I’m going to have to do something to manage the situation. Lucas is remarkably stoic about everything, putting up with the insane disruption of our routine without any complaints, but I’m sure he won’t let this go on forever. And I myself miss having meals with just the two of us—or three, if Misha comes over. There’s a huge difference between giving a few leftovers to the guards and running what is quickly becoming an all-day restaurant operation. By the time dinner is over, I’m exhausted to the point of passing out, and several times, I do pass out in the living room as we watch TV—a situation that usually results in Lucas carrying me to bed and fucking my brains out before letting me go back to sleep.
There’s also another, more tricky concern.
“Lucas, are the guards defraying any of the food expenses?” I ask him one morning as I mix up batter for blini—Russian-style crepes. “Or is Esguerra paying for the ingredients?”
“No, and no,” Lucas replies, watching me with a hooded stare from the table. I have no idea if he wants the crepes, or if it’s my tiny shorts that have him intrigued, but there’s a distinct look of hunger on his starkly masculine face.
Refusing to let it distract me, I put down the whisk on a paper towel and frown at Lucas. “No? But this is a lot of food—and some of the ingredients are really expensive.”
“So what?” His gaze travels over my body, lingering on the sliver of stomach exposed by my tank top. “You’re enjoying this, and we can afford it.”
I tug down the shirt and wait for his eyes to meet mine again. “We?”
“Sure,” Lucas says without blinking. “I told you, Esguerra pays me well, and I’ve accumulated a nice stash over the years.”
“Right.” I decide that he misspoke with that pronoun, and return to the topic at hand. “But that still doesn’t mean you should pay out of pocket for everyone’s food,” I say. “I mean, we’re talking hundreds of dollars a day.”
Lucas shrugs. “All right. If you’re worried, I’ll tell the guards to start paying for their meals. Your food is certainly good enough for a high-end restaurant, so I think it’s a good idea if you charged like one.”
“Seriously?” I stare at him. “You want me to run a real restaurant?”
“Sweetheart, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but you are running a real restaurant.” Lucas gets up to walk over to me. His eyes gleam as he stops in front of me and says, “A very good restaurant, as evidenced by the fact that a third of the guards come by at least once a day. And the rest… Well, many are still stuck on the crash, but most who don’t come simply can’t—they have duties that prevent them from leaving their posts.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t realized my food was that popular, though the seventy-nine visitors that one day should’ve given me a clue.
“Yes, oh.” Lucas reaches out to brush a strand of hair off my forehead. “You’ve been having fun with this, so I haven’t said anything, but now that we’re talking about it, I think it’s a good idea to make the fuckers pay, and pay well. That might weed out some of the cheaper bastards and reduce the workload for you.”
“All right,” I agree after a moment of deliberation. “If you think that would be okay, I’ll try.”
* * *
I follow Lucas’s suggestion with trepidation, certain that no one in their right mind would want to pay for my cooking when they could eat in the cafeteria for free. The main reason I do it is because I don’t want to bankrupt Lucas with my hobby. He’s been beyond generous with me, but I can’t ask him to subsidize everyone’s meals forever. Also, I’m not exactly opposed to a reduced workload; as fun of a challenge as this has been, laboring in the kitchen for ten-plus hours a day is hard work. I’m so tired I’m having to wear concealer to hide my undereye circles, and I know if Lucas notices that, he might put a stop to the whole operation.
My health is still his top worry.
To my surprise, when I post the prices—genuine high-end restaurant prices, written in black marker on a sheet of paper pinned to the front door—nobody so much as voices a peep of protest. By the time the day is over, I make over six million Colombian pesos—nearly two thousand US dollars.
Stunned, I show the haul to Lucas. “They paid. Can you believe it? They actually paid.”
“I can, unfortunately.” He glowers at the pile of money on the table. “They’re not as cheap as I’d hoped.”
And so the madness continues. My business—and I have to think of it as such now—is very lucrative, but it’s also exhausting. I do everything from the cooking to the serving to the cleaning. By the time another three weeks have gone by, I realize that if I’m going to operate as a restaurant, I’m going to need to either get help or limit the scope of what I’m doing.
“I think I’m going to serve only lunch,” I say to Lucas as I scrub the pots and pans left over from dinner. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll put out a few tables in the back yard, make it into a sit-down cafe of sorts instead of giving everyone takeout. That way, if more people come than can be comfortably seated during open hours, they’ll have to make a reservation for another day.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Lucas says, coming over to help me lift a heavy pan out of the sink. “For tonight, why don’t you go to bed early? I’ll finish up here and join
you.”
“No, that’s okay, I can do it,” I say, but he brushes me aside and goes to work scrubbing the remaining pots. Seeing that he has no intention of budging, I sigh and thank him before wearily trudging off to take a shower.
At this point, I’ll take any help I can get.
* * *
The next day, I start implementing my ideas. At first, some guards grumble about being deprived of dinner, but when Lucas shows up and gives them a glacial stare, all the grumbling stops. By the time the week is over, I’ve successfully transitioned from a disorganized all-day takeout operation to a small and highly sought-after lunch cafe.
“I’m booked solid for the next three weeks,” I tell Lucas in gleeful disbelief as we go on a morning walk—our first in almost two weeks. “Seriously, I’m having to take reservations for the next month.”
“Of course, what did you expect?” He gives me a warm smile. “I’ve always told you your cooking is amazing.”
I grin, delighted at the praise. I suspect Lucas is more excited about the return of our private dinners than my cafe’s popularity, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s been incredibly supportive of my venture. I’m sure the profit the cafe makes doesn’t hurt, but he was on board with everything even when my hobby was a financial drain.
“What have you been doing with the money?” I ask, wondering for the first time what happens to the pile of cash I give Lucas every night. “Do you deposit it somewhere? Invest it?”
“I put it into your account, of course. What else?”
“My account?” My eyebrows crawl up. “What do you mean, my account?”
“The account I opened for you in the Cayman Islands,” Lucas says casually, as if that sort of thing is done every day. “Well, technically, it’s in both of our names, as per the advice of my accountant, but you’re the primary account holder.”
“What?” I stop and frown at him, certain I must be misunderstanding something. “You’ve been depositing that money into an account for me? Why?”
“Because it’s your money,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “You earned it, so what else would I do with it?”
“Um, keep it, seeing as I’m cooking with the ingredients you buy using equipment that you paid for?”
“Yes, but I’m not the one doing the actual cooking,” Lucas says reasonably. “Besides, I do deduct food expenses before making the deposits. The money going into the account is pure business profit—your business profit.”
My head spins as I stare at him. “But what do you expect me to do with that money? And how much money is there by now, anyway?”
“As of yesterday, there’s a little over forty thousand dollars.” He resumes walking, and I hurry after him, feeling like I’ve fallen through a rabbit hole. “As to what you want to do with it, it’s up to you. If you want, I can ask my portfolio manager to invest it for you, or if you feel like playing the stock market yourself, you can do that too. Or just leave it sitting there until you have a better idea of what you want to do with it.”
My Alice-in-Wonderland feeling intensifies. “I can play the stock market?”
“If that’s what you want to do. Or you can leave it to the professionals—Winters, my portfolio manager, is quite good.”
Right. Because everyone knows captives have access to topnotch portfolio managers. My mind races as I try to work through the implications of this. “Lucas, are you…” I glance at him cautiously. “Are you going to set me free?”
He stops and turns to face me, his casual demeanor gone without a trace. “What do you mean by that?” His pale eyes glint dangerously. “Are you saying you want to leave?”
“No, but”—I swallow, my pulse kicking up—“would you let me if I did?” Could Lucas have changed his mind about our relationship? Is it possible he’s grown to care about me enough to give me this choice?
He steps toward me, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun streaming through the trees. “Never,” he says with harsh finality. “You’re not leaving me. You can do whatever you want, run a thousand restaurants, make millions if you feel like it, but you’ll do it by my side. I’m not letting you go, Yulia—not now, not ever.”
I stare up at him, my heart pounding with a contradictory mixture of dismay and elation. “Never? But what if you get tired of me?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You can’t say that for sure—”
“Yes, I can.” He steps even closer, forcing me to back up against a tree. Bracing his palms on the thick trunk behind me, he leans in, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve never wanted another woman the way I want you. You’re like a fire under my skin. I want you every minute of every day. It doesn’t matter how often we fuck; the moment I pull out, I want to be in you again, feeling your wet, silky heat, smelling you… tasting you.” He draws in a deep breath, his muscular chest expanding, and I feel my own breathing quicken as his hard pecs touch my peaked nipples. My palms press against the tree behind me, the rough bark digging into my skin. I’m caged by him, surrounded, the fire that he just talked about burning under my skin as well.
Involuntarily, my tongue comes out to moisten my lips, and I see Lucas’s eyes darken.
“Yulia…” He presses his lower body against mine, and I feel the hard swell in his jeans. “I can’t stop wanting you, no matter what I do,” he says in a low, thick voice. “Every night, when I hold you, I think that maybe tomorrow will be the day when this obsession lessens, when I can go a few hours without thinking about you, without craving you like a fucking drug, but that’s not what happens. I wake up just as addicted, and you know what, baby?”
“What?” I manage to whisper, my mouth dry and my pulse hammering. What Lucas is saying, the way he’s looking at me…
“I kind of like it.” He lowers his head until his mouth hovers less than a centimeter from mine. I can smell the bergamot of Earl Grey on his breath, see the darkness of his pupils and the blue-gray rings of irises surrounding them. “You give me something I didn’t know I wanted, and I’m not about to let it slip away.”
“What…” I inhale, prickles of heat racing up and down my spine. “What do I give you?”
“This.” His lips ghost over mine, the tenderness of the kiss contrasting with the savage hunger I feel in him. “You. Whichever way I want.” His mouth trails over my jaw, warm and soft on my skin, and I close my eyes, a moan escaping my lips as my head involuntarily tips back. I feel hot and dizzy, my body thrumming with a dark, pulsing heat that has nothing to do with the mid-morning sun beaming down on the rainforest canopy above us. I’m drunk on Lucas, high on whatever chemical cocktail my brain cooks up in his presence. He’s not telling me anything I didn’t already know—his sexual obsession with me has been obvious from the beginning—yet the needy part of me searches for a deeper meaning in his erotically charged words, tries to decipher them like a puzzle. Could this be his way of telling me he cares about me? That he loves me, even?
I open my eyes, fighting the drugged sensation so I can find the courage to ask, and then I hear it.
A woman’s peal of laughter, followed by the sound of twigs snapping under someone’s feet.
Lucas must’ve heard it too, because he releases me and spins around, keeping me protectively behind him.
A second later, a small, dark-haired girl sprints out from behind the trees, her tanned face glowing with a smile and her white sports bra soaked with sweat. Two steps behind her is a tall, darkly handsome man. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray running shorts, his bronzed, muscular body gleaming with perspiration and his white teeth bared in a grin.
His blue eyes meet mine from behind the shelter of Lucas’s body, and the heat inside me turns to ice.
It’s Julian and Nora Esguerra.
They must’ve been out for a run.
Seeing us, they stop, breathing heavily. Their smiles disappear without a trace.
“Hey there,” Lucas says calmly, seemingly oblivious to the tension crack
ling in the air. “How’s your run?”
“Hot. Humid. You know, the usual,” Esguerra responds in the same casual manner, but I see the hard set of his jaw as he steps forward to stand next to Nora. He towers over her petite frame, his biceps almost the same width as her slender waist. A ray of sunlight falls across his face, and I notice a faint white scar on his left cheekbone. It runs all the way to the top of his eyebrow, crossing his left eye.
His fake left eye, I remember with a cold shudder. He lost the real one after the plane crash I’d caused.
“Sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt,” Nora says, her cool tone belying her apology. Her dark eyes travel from me to Lucas, then back to me as she adds, “It’s my fault. We don’t usually run this way, but I went off our usual path today.”
Lucas’s massive shoulders rise in a brief shrug. “It’s your estate. You can go wherever you wish.” His voice is still unruffled, but the muscles in his arms tighten, and when I glance at Esguerra, I see him staring at me, his gaze menacing in its intensity.
The ice inside me spreads all the way down to my toes. I’m not afraid for myself, but I can’t bear the thought of endangering Lucas, who’s standing in front of me like a human shield. He’s ready to fight for me, I can feel it.
To protect me, he’ll go up against Esguerra and die—if not in the fight itself, then afterwards, at the hands of two hundred guards presumably loyal to their boss.
“Lucas,” I say quietly, curling my fingers around his wrist. “Come. We should go.”
He doesn’t move, and neither does Esguerra. The two men appear to be rooted in place, their powerful muscles bunched tight as they glare at each other. Lucas is a couple of centimeters taller and slightly thicker in the chest than Esguerra, but I have a feeling they’d be evenly matched in a fight. Violence is the language they speak; it’s there in the scars on their bodies and the savagery in their eyes.
If the line of trust is crossed, only one of them will leave this forest alive.
