"Tomorrow," he says without looking back. "Ask nicely from the beginning, and maybe I'll teach you something useful."
Day nine, I swallow my pride before I enter the kitchen.
It goes down like broken glass, but I manage it. The hunger has become a living thing inside me, gnawing at my insides and making rational thought nearly impossible. I've lost weight I couldn't afford to lose, my clothes hanging loose on a frame that was never substantial to begin with.
He's already there when I arrive, leaning against the counter like he's been waiting. Probably has been. The predator watching his prey finally learn the rules of the hunt.
"Please," I say before he can speak, forcing the word out before pride can stop me. "Please teach me to cook. I can't... I don't know how."
"Much better." He pushes off the counter, and I'm struck again by how gracefully he moves. Like winter wind given form. "What do you want to learn?"
"Something simple. Something I can't burn."
"Porridge." He moves to the stove, gathering ingredients with sure hands. "Hard to ruin, filling, will keep you alive."
He gathers what he needs—oats, water, a pinch of salt. Simple things that somehow become sustenance under his guidance. I watch him measure and mix, trying to memorize every step while fighting the dizzy weakness that threatens to topple me.
"Now you try."
I move to the stove on unsteady legs, my body protesting the simple movement. The pan feels heavy in my weak hands. I pour in oats and water, trying to copy his proportions but knowing I'm getting it wrong.
"Too much water," he says, stepping behind me. "Like this."
The words are simple instruction, but when his body presses against my back, everything changes. His chest is solid and cold against my spine, ice-cold skin that should be painful but somehow isn't. Instead, it's like being pressed against winter itself—not the brutal cold that kills, but the deep cold that preserves, that makes everything crystalline and perfect.
His hands cover mine on the spoon, and I have to bite back a gasp. His fingers are long and pale and impossibly cold, but their touch sends heat racing through my blood in ways that make no sense. I can feel every hard line of his chest, smell that intoxicating scent of winter and pine and something uniquely him.
"Stir slowly," he murmurs against my ear, his breath cool against my heated skin. "Gentle circles. Don't rush it."
His voice does something to my insides. Makes them clench and flutter and grow warm despite the cold radiating from his body. I try to focus on the porridge, but all I can think about is how solid he feels behind me. How his hands dwarf mine. How his breath against my neck makes my skin prickle with unwanted awareness.
This is wrong. I should be fighting this, resisting the way my body responds to his proximity. But I'm weak from hunger and something else—something that makes me want to lean back into his embrace, want to turn in his arms and...
"Good girl."
The praise hits me like a physical touch, and my body responds before my mind can stop it. A flush of heat spreads through my chest, a flutter low in my belly, wetness gathering between my legs that has nothing to do with cooking and everything to do with the way his voice wraps around those two simple words.
The reaction is so strong, so immediate, that I nearly drop the spoon. What is wrong with me? Why does my body betray me like this, responding to him when I should be fighting every instinct that draws me closer?
I hate myself for it. Hate that two words of approval from this monster make me feel warm and cherished when I should feel conquered. Hate that some deep part of me preens at his praise like a starving animal given scraps.
"There." He steps back, and I immediately miss his warmth—another betrayal that makes shame burn in my chest. "Edible."
The porridge is perfectly creamy, golden and smooth, nothing like my previous disasters. I take a shaking spoonful and almost moan at the taste—simple but satisfying, the first proper food I've had in days. My body practically weeps with relief.
"Thank you," I say quietly, meaning it despite everything.
He watches me eat with those unreadable eyes, and I'm acutely aware of his attention. Feel his gaze like a physical weight studying my face as I consume what he taught me to make. There's something intimate about it that I don't understand—something that makes my skin feel too tight and my heart beat too fast.
"You'll practice this tomorrow," he says when I'm halfway through the bowl. "Master porridge before you attempt anything else."
I nod, too focused on food to argue. But I'm aware of him watching every bite I take, cataloguing my responses with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world. Like this simple act of feeding myself has become something else entirely under his watchful gaze.
When I finish, he's still watching.
"Better?" he asks.
"Yes." The word comes out breathier than I intend, and I curse myself for the way my voice betrays my awareness of him. "Much better."
