Page 70 of Captive Prize

He nodded. I didn’t see it, but I could feel his movement against my hair. Roman pressed into the dough again, leaving a pretty large ditch, and I stifled a giggle that felt light. Felt good.

“Here, try it like this.” I took the rolling pin from his hands and showed him how to stretch the dough into a perfect circle.

For a moment, one brief, fleeting, but perfect moment, we weren’t captor and captive. He wasn’t my enemy. I wasn’t trying to bury his family in ash.

We were just two people in the kitchen with something between us. I didn’t dare give it a name. It was too fragile, too intangible. Like if I named it, or even really acknowledged it, it would evaporate into nothing.

That connection still stretched between us, threading its way into the air, tying us together.

Then I ducked under his arm and stepped away.

I broke that connection before it could break me.

When he started expertly rolling out the dough, I took in a deep breath of fresh, cold air that wasn’t filled with his addictive scent and started making the filling. Thank god he had chicken thighs, carrots, onions, and everything else I needed, including a surprising number of fresh herbs.

I worked to create the filling, trying and failing to block Roman from my mind.

It was impossible. The kitchen was enormous, but he just took up so much space. I had a feeling it wouldn’t matter how big or small the kitchen was, he was the kind of man who filled a space in a way that you couldn’t ignore him.

Or maybe it was that I didn’t want to ignore him.

When the filling was done and simmering in the pot, I rolled out some extra dough and started cutting decorative stars for the pastry dome.

I didn’t need to.

We weren’t making it for a celebration. It didn’t have to be pretty, but it was a habit. The first thing I learned how to do as a child was cut out the stars, and doing so now made me feel better. It reminded me of a time when I still trusted people,when I still thought my father had my best interest at heart and I wasn’t a prop used to further men’s agendas.

After I slid the completed pastry into the oven, I hopped up onto the counter and Roman stepped in front of me, handing me a full glass of water.

“Drink this. You’re supposed to stay hydrated.”

I nodded, suppressing a small smile as I took the glass from him.

Roman opened his mouth at least half a dozen times to say something, but nothing came out.

There were so many questions on the tip of my tongue and I didn’t dare ask them.

Not because I didn’t want the answers. But because I wasn’t ready for the answers, not yet. I wasn’t ready for reality to intrude into this little moment that Roman and I had stolen from the rest of the world.

When thekurnikcame out of the oven, Roman’s face was priceless.

He stared at the perfect golden dome in awe, like he didn’t quite believe that we had made this together.

I smirked as my hand went to the knife block and wrapped around the black handle of the fillet knife.

His hand whipped out and grabbed my wrist, holding me as I pulled the knife from the block.

A breath passed before my fingers tightened around the handle. This was a test. A silent promise.

I said nothing as I turned the blade toward the pastry and he let me cut into the golden dome. He didn’t release my wrist until I had sliced two pieces and placed the knife down.

Only then did he grab two plates and load the pastry onto them. Despite the hunger gnawing at my stomach, I waited and watched Roman take his first bite.

The pleasure sliding across his features made the extra moments worth the wait. His eyes closed as a groan of male satisfaction rumbled from his chest.

“That is — amazing,” he said.

I smiled as I took my first bite.

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