Page 20 of Inferno

Stepping past me, he flips another switch, and the dark kitchen suddenly fills with light. The cabinets are a rich, deep blue color, the same tone as the rug on the floor and the fabric of the couch. Plants fill the corners of the room, spilling from the window ledges and hanging from shelves, giving his home a feeling of freshness. Even the air in here feels cleaner and refreshing, like every inhale fills my lungs with more oxygen than I’m used to.

Without looking at me, Anders moves around the small kitchen, pulling things from the refrigerator, chopping and slicing, filling the otherwise silent house with the sounds of the cooking shows I sometimes watch.

The extent of my cooking abilities is ramen and sandwiches. I guess I could make eggs and toast, but eggs are expensive, and I don’t have a toaster or grill. Of all the chores my foster families insisted I do, cooking was never one of them. So, although I’m vaguely familiar with what Anders is doing, I don’t have any idea what he’s making.

Soon the smell of something good starts to emanate from the pans he’s using, and my stomach growls loudly.

“Good boy,” Anders praises, his eyes flashing with happiness as he swings his pale eyes to where I’m still standing uselessly in the middle of the room.

“What?”

“I told you to get hungry, and you obeyed,” he tells me with a soft smile, like I deliberately did something to please him.

“I didn’t obey. I’m not a dog,” I say, trying to sound assertive and failing…miserably.

“No, you’re not a dog. You’re my Kitten.”

Stunned into silence, my lips part on a retort, but I have no idea what to say. So instead, I just stand frozen and quiet.

“Here,” he says, jolting me from my stupor. “Can you set the table?”

Blinking, I glance from his face to his hands, where he’s holding out placemats and silverware. Taking them, I set the small dining table on autopilot, putting the placemats at opposite ends and as far away from each other as possible.

The sound of his chuckle draws my attention, and I turn to look at him. “Cute,” he says, stepping out from behind the counter with two plates, one in each hand. Closing the distance between us, he places one plate at the setting closest to me, then drags the other setting into the spot beside it, placing the plate down onto it.

“Sit,” he orders, arching his brow at me, like he’s waiting for me to argue.

Instead, I lower myself into the seat and drop my gaze to the plate. It’s barely been twenty minutes since we got here, but the plate has a huge chicken breast wrapped in some kind of ham and coated in a creamy sauce. Beside it on the plate is broccoli, green beans, and glossy potatoes that look like they’ve been rolled in butter.

As if on cue, my stomach growls loudly again, filling the silence with the sound of my hunger.

“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you, Kitten?”

His words of praise should feel condescending, but instead my body heats and my stomach clenches with excitement, like his approval has a direct link to my arousal.

“Start eating, I’ll grab drinks. Do you want water or soda?” he asks.

“Water, please,” I whisper, embarrassed that he can read my thoughts and see how clearly him calling me both a good boy and Kitten has affected me.

Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on my plate, I spear a floret of broccoli on my fork and take a bite, moaning faintly at the taste of the vegetable. I know that most kids hate vegetables, but when you rarely, if ever, have them, they oddly become somewhat of a luxury. I honestly don’t remember the last time I had enough money to buy any kind of vegetable that didn’t come in a can, and even then, I felt indulgent and frivolous at buying anything beyond absolute basic essentials.

Spearing a green bean next, I sigh happily, savoring the freshness and creamy butter that has spread from the potatoes. Most people assume that junk food is expensive, but they’d be wrong. If you’re grocery shopping on a budget, the best way to get the most amount of food for the least amount of money is to buy things that have more E numbers and MSG than nutrients.

I grew up on hot dogs, ramen, Hamburger Helper, and cheap pizza. Now I scour the grocery store each week for anything fresh in the reduced section, only willing to buy it when it’s so cheap it’s practically free. I think I’m the only person who is pumped to find bruised fruit or wilting vegetables.

Placing a bottle of water in front of me, he retakes his seat and starts to eat. While Anders devours his chicken, I savor my veggies, enjoying every nutritious mouthful. Not wanting to look like a pig, I slowly work my way through my plate, fighting the moans of pleasure that keep trying to slip free from my lips.

Eating slowly, I keep my attention solely on the food, not wanting to risk losing my appetite if I look at my dinner companion. Although even without lifting my gaze, I can feel him watching me.

“Good?” he asks, finally breaking the silence once I’ve finished my last bite and laid my silverware down on the plate.

“It was great, thank you. I appreciate you cooking for me.”

“You’re welcome, Kitten. What do you normally do after you finish work?”

“It’s usually pretty late by the time I get home. After I’ve eaten, I take a shower, then watch a show or something before I go to bed.”

“What shows do you watch? Let’s watch them together,” he suggests.

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