Page 29 of Heritage of Fire

An hour later after scrubbing the entire oven four times, there are still burnt pieces clinging to the bottom. And after all that, I still have the crusted black chicken pan to deal with.

With a sink full of warm water, I dunk the pan, soaking it as much as possible before finally going at it with a scrub brush.

Ten minutes later, I realize it’s pointless. The whole thing is stuck in a state of permanent charring.

Still, I scrub furiously, pouring all my frustration into fighting the pan. I can’t believe I’m here, in a strange apartment, alone, burning meals for a man who doesn’t even want me in his life.

I snarl, tossing the scrub brush into the sink. Soapy water splashes back into my face.

“You know, I knew I saw fire in you …”

Nik’s words die off as soon as his eyes meet mine and he sees the disheveled state I’m in, tears and soap running down my face. He steps up to the counter next to me and studies the pan I’ve been grappling with.

He looks around the apartment.

“It’s cold in here, Luna.” He moves to close the windows and then adjusts the thermostat.

“I-I’m sorry, Nik,” I say when he comes back over. I reach back in the water for the pan, grabbing it with my burnt fingers, and flinch. Hissing, I shake out my hand. Nik looks at it, then at my face. I look away.

“What happened to your hand, Luna?”

He sounds angry.

Planting his feet right in front of mine, he pulls at my wrist and flips my hand over in his. Bubbling blisters rage on my two fingers. Without saying another word, he yanks my wrist, hand flexing on my skin, and leads me through the bedroom and into the bathroom.

He stops near the freestanding bathtub. “Sit.”

I immediately obey, shocked at my body’s response to the command in his voice.

A shiver eases up my spine as Nik digs through the vanity. The solid wood countertop hosts two sinks, and he uses one to wet a cold rag.

“Keep this pressed to your fingers.”

He takes my good hand, his rough, calloused hands engulfing mine, as he mimics what I should do before turning back to the cabinet.

With his back toward me, I can’t help but admire his sculpted body. He isbuilt. Muscles stretch out his suit, and the fabric hugs every curve and dip. With his sleeves rolled, cords in his arms flex and tighten as he digs around for whatever he’s looking for, shadows catching the contours of his frame.

I stare, picturing those strong arms holding me. My stomach drops—notthe time, Luna.

When he turns around to face me, I divert my eyes to the pendant lighting above the tub.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Here.”

He reaches for my hand and crouches before me, pulling away the cold compress, then smearing petroleum jelly along the blisters. It’s so gentle I barely feel his touch, though I’m burning from it all the same.

Nik’s eyes are focused on my fingers, so I let mine explore his face. The bathroom’s soft glow highlights his hazel eyes, making them appear green. Laugh lines spread out from the corners of his eyes, and I wonder what type of life he’s lived to have laughed so much.

A smile crosses his face, and a small dimple comes into view, stealing my focus from his other handsome features. Warmth floods my cheeks.

“What were you trying to make?” he says with a teasing tone while wrapping my fingers with a bandage.

I shake my head. “Chicken parmesan, but I’m a terrible cook.”

His smile widens and he laughs. It’s deep and rich, enticing me to lean closer. His charm is alluring. Too alluring.

“I was trying to make dinner for when you got home.”

Those words silence him, and his smile morphs into a tortuous frown. “Listen, Luna. I don’t expect you to cook for me. I’m a grown-ass man capable of feeding myself. Believe it or not, I’m a pretty good cook.”

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