Page 72 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

I shot him my fiercest glare from within my mountain of blankets. “What gave it away? The chattering teeth or the fortress worth of bedding?”

He turned a page without looking up. “You’re huddled there like a half-drowned kitten.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, tucking my frozen feet beneath me. The fire snapped and sent sparks dancing toward the chimney, but its warmth fizzled out before it reached my couch.

Kazimir’s non-committal hum said he didn’t believe me. I tried to focus on the dusty text on gemstone magic I’d brought over, but it worked better than any sleeping draught. My eyelids drooped.

“I know a way to warm you,” he said at last.

I opened my mouth to launch a snark about abandoning innuendo for a single night, but when I turned he was rummaging for clothes, not prowling toward me with a scandalous proposal.

“What are you doing?” I asked, confused by this deviation from his usual nightly pastime of trying to provoke me.

“Dressing,” he replied, as though it should have been obvious. “You’re shivering, and we can fix that.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And how do you propose to accomplish that, exactly?”

He crossed the room, fetched yet another blanket from a chest near the hearth, and draped it across my shoulders. “Follow me.”

“Where?”

“Must you question everything?” He sighed, but his voice lacked true irritation. “Just come along, unless you plan to freeze solid.”

I mulled over my options: stay alone in his lair where the dangers were well-charted, or track the Dark Lord into unknown territory. Predictably, curiosity won.

“Fine.” I clutched the blankets and rose. “Lead on, Lord Blackrose.”

He opened the door and gestured for me to go first. The corridor was hushed, the orblights dimmed for the late hour. We descended the spiral stair, then wound through a slanted passage that burrowed beneath the citadel. Gradually, the air grew warmer, laced with a comforting, spiced aroma.

We emerged into a snug kitchen—smaller than the grand one I’d glimpsed before. This looked older, part of the fortress’s original design. A generous hearth dominated one wall; copper pots glimmered overhead; bundles of dried herbs perfumed the air.

“The main kitchens are always busy,” Kazimir explained as he headed toward a cabinet. “Plus, they’re across another lightning bridge. This little corner of the Inner Sanctum is quieter.”

“I didn’t know this existed,” I admitted, drifting toward the hearth’s glorious heat.

“There’s much about the citadel you still don’t know.” Without warning, he caught me by the waist and set me on the counter like I weighed nothing. My stomach swooped at his casual strength.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, clutching my blankets.

“Preparing mulled wine,” he said, pulling spices and a jug of deep red wine from the cupboard. “Maybe something to eat. Hungry?”

Only when he asked did I notice the hollow ache. “A little.”

He moved with confident ease—wine into a copper pot, cinnamon sticks, cloves, citrus peel—decidedly domestic for the Terror of the Western Realms.

“I had no idea you could cook,” I said while he stirred.

“Heating wine isn’t cooking.” He shot me an amused glance. “You’re too easily impressed, Lady Blackrose. Though perhaps I should have tried this tactic first instead of kidnapping you.”

I snorted. “Nothing says ‘marry me’ like mulled wine at midnight.”

The scene felt surreal: me barefoot on a kitchen counter while Kazimir Blackrose fussed over a pot of spiced wine. He poured the steaming wine into two earthenware cups and handed one to me.

I wrapped both hands around it, greedily absorbing the heat. One sip and an involuntary moan slipped out. “This is amazing.”

“I know.” A faint, smug smile crossed his face.

He sliced bread, layered it with cheese and cured meat, and passed me a plate. The first bite was bliss. Silence settled, but it was a comfortable hush, fragile and precious.

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