Page 36 of Cruel Deception
Cooking for him is what I’d gladly do. “What would you like me to cook for you?”
He rises, swiping the laptop, and heads for the door. “Come with me.”
I glance at my phone—2 a.m. Midnight cooking?
I follow, my Gucci silk dress swishing, catching up as he strides to the vast kitchen, its stainless steel gleaming like a surgical suite.
“I can handle it,” I say, gesturing to the counters. “Just tell me what you want.”
“I cook too,” he says, his voice low, surprising. “Let’s do it together.”
My eyes widen, a flicker of warmth cutting through my wariness.
Cooking together? It’s intimate and disarming.
“Okay,” I say, stepping to the island. “What are we making?”
“Pasta alla Norma,” he says, pulling ingredients—eggplant, tomatoes, basil—from the fridge.
“Get the ricotta salata.”
I nod, grabbing the cheese from a shelf, the kitchen’s size, a chef's dream.
“Slice the eggplant thin,” Cassian says, handing me a knife, his fingers brushing mine. I flinch. Not from fear—but something sharper.
I cut, precise, while he dices tomatoes, his movements deft, almost graceful.
“Less salt,” I say, eyeing the pinch he adds to the boiling water. “It’ll overpower the basil.”
He glances at me, a flicker of something—respect?—before nodding, reducing the salt.
We move in sync, a quiet rhythm forming. I sauté the eggplant, its sizzle filling the air, while he stirs the tomato sauce, the kitchen warming with garlic and herbs.
“More basil,” I suggest, handing him a sprig, our hands grazing again, my skin tingling despite myself.
He steps behind me, close enough that I feel the heat of him, more intense than the burner.
He adds it, his focus intense, and I plate the pasta, grating ricotta salata over each portion, the scent rich, inviting.
“Fifteen minutes,” I say, sliding the plates into a warming oven to meld the flavors.
“Fourteen,” he corrects softly, a hint of challenge in his voice as he leans back against the chair, not like a king commanding his court, but like a man easing into something unfamiliar. Something almost... human.
Then, abruptly: “Your father sent Vincent on a suicide mission.”
My breath catches. The warmth of the kitchen vanishes.
“What?”
He doesn’t pause. “If it weren’t for me, he’d be dead. Everyone else on that run was.”
I stagger, gripping the counter. “You... saved him?”
Cassian’s eyes meet mine, unflinching. There’s no gentleness in them.
“Your father knew the risk. He sent him anyway.” His tone is carved from stone, indifferent and absolute.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I don’t deserve it.”
