But then he said he'd be back.
I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to ease the tension building there.
I meant nothing to Darius Ivanov—I was a means to an end and nothing more. He could have any woman he wanted, and probably did. Pretending otherwise would only deepen the pain.
Even thinking those words made my heart ache in a way I refused to acknowledge.
Then I looked at the bedside table and saw the plate of odd, fluffy pancakes waiting for me to finish.
If I meant nothing, why did he cook for me?
My stomach growled, but hunger wasn't why I reached for the plate. I knew somehow Darius would know if I didn't eat. And he'd hold it against me. Infuriating man.
After wrapping a blanket around me, I took my second bite of pancake and couldn't suppress the moan that escaped.
Holy fuck, these were good. They looked like pancakes but had a sweetly sour yet buttery taste that melted on my tongue. The blackberry jam wasn't too sweet or tart.
Wait. How did he make this? I didn't have blackberry jam. I didn't have flour, eggs, or milk. Did he go grocery shopping for me? Again?
I padded to the kitchen, the blanket whispering against my thighs with each step. Everything was spotless, militant in its clean organization. Even my tchotchkes were arranged by size or color. My brain preferred horizontal organization, a little chaos. But this...Darius had to have a pathological need for order. Cleaning my house and ordering groceries while I slept had to be diagnosable.
I opened the refrigerator, expecting mostly empty shelves.
Fully stocked. All of it fresh, healthy food. Raw meat, vegetables—so many vegetables. Who ate this many vegetables?
The hiss of the coffee pot drew my attention. A fresh pot had just finished brewing. Next to it sat a deep red box with gold embossing instead of my usual bag of Folgers. I opened it carefully, breathing in the wonderfully fragrant grounds with hints of dark chocolate and spice.
A fresh bottle of vanilla syrup with a new pump sat beside the coffeemaker.
I made a cup in my favorite mug—a gift from Edith—and carried it with my pancakes back to the couch. A quick Google search told me the coffee beans cost nearly a hundred dollars per pound.
One sip told me it was worth it.
I stared at my apartment, trying to piece together the puzzle that was Darius Ivanov.
The man who'd threatened to blow my head off had ensured I was getting proper nutrition. He'd terrorized me, spanked me, fucked me like he owned me. Then he'd been sweet, made loveto me, and in the same breath as punishing me with his belt, threatened my ex for hitting me.
Too many contradictions. None of it made sense.
My front doorknob rattled.
I froze, coffee cup halfway to my lips.
Shit. Was Darius returning already? Would he be mad I didn't stay in bed like he'd commanded? What if he thought I was being disobedient? What if?—
A knock at the door.
Not pounding. A knock. And Darius had keys—I knew he'd copied them the first night.
"Open this door right now, Eleanor," my mother yelled from the other side before knocking again.
My shoulders sank. The coffee cup clinked as I set it down with shaking hands. My gut twisted in a way I chose not to examine too closely.
I wrapped the blanket tighter—suddenly, painfully aware I was naked under it. Of what it meant. Of the marks hidden beneath the cotton.
What if Darius came back while she was here?
What would he think? Would he be angry? Would he?—
