Chapter 28
Grace
Dammit. Of course the second I open my mouth, I screw things up with a badly worded sentence. Mikhail looks furious, and part of me knows I should be terrified. Except I’m not. I know he won’t hurt me, not seriously, anyway, and his anger is sweet. Is he jealous? As if I’d rather be with Mason stick-in-the-mud Dickens than with my amazing Master. Ridiculous.
Mikhail clearly doesn’t think it’s ridiculous, because he’s seething as he gives my shoulders a small shake. “You better start talking, Doll, or I’ll spank the fucking life out of you,” he growls. “Are you fucking married?”
“No, I’m not.” I wonder what he would do if I were? He doesn’t strike me as someone who’d honor the “you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife” commandment. “Just sort of…promised? God,it sounds stupid, but it’s my parents. They just decided I’d marry Mason once I finish school, so…” So I went with it even though I don’t even like Mason. Why did I not say no? “He’s not a bad guy,” I add lamely as if that could justify my complacency. “He’s just really boring.”
“‘Really boring,’” Mikhail repeats through clenched teeth. “How long have you been ‘promised’ to this ‘really boring’ Mason person?”
I attempt a shrug, but his grip doesn’t really allow me to move my shoulders. “I don’t know, since kindergarten? His parents are friends with my parents, so they just kind of decided we’d be together. There was a whole uproar when I lost my virginity, and they were terrified Mason wouldn’t want me anymore, but I don’t think he cares. He doesn’t really care much about anyone, especially not me. Actually,” I add, my eyes widening, “I think he might be gay.” Huh. How did I not see that before? Perhaps because in the circles he and our parents move in, being gay is about as bad as premarital sex. Or cannibalism.
Gritting out a curse in Russian, Mikhail rests his forehead on top of mine. “You are not marrying this Mason dickhead, is that clear?”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, a giggle escaping me. At Mikhail’s deadly glare, I quickly explain, “It’s Dickens. His name is Dickens, not,” another giggle, “what you said.”
“Mason Dickens?” Mikhail repeats in disbelief. “He sounds like a villain from a Victorian novel. I’ll take care of him. You’re mine, Doll. Just mine.”
“Yours,” I agree, warmth filling my chest. Then his other words hit me. “Wait, you’lltake care of him? What does that mean? You won’t, like, hurt him, will you? He’s really not a bad person. Not like—” I stop myself before blurting out something truly terrible. After all, who speaks ill of their parents? Even if they’re not really great people.
Mikhail narrows his eyes. “Not like who? The person who taught you how to relax into the strike of a cane? Who gave you this exceptional pain tolerance? Who convinced you you’re not beautiful? I think I know where all that came from, Grace, and rest assured that I will take care of them, too.”
“Don’t…” I hesitate. I want to beg Mikhail not to hurt my parents, but as I remember all the pain they’ve caused me, the words get stuck in my throat. “Don’t kill them, please,” I manage to say. I don’t want anyone’s life on my conscience. When I get a noncommittal grunt, I press on. “No deaths. Please, Mikhail.”
“Fine. No deaths,” Mikhail grumbles.
Seeing that’s the best promise I’m going to get, I don’t protest anymore and tilt my head, silently asking for a kiss. Mikhail crashes his mouth against mine in a bruising, claiming kiss I melt into. “You’re mine,” he growls against my lips. “My fucking Doll. My Grace.”
“Yours,” I repeat breathlessly when we come up for air. My lipstick is probably smeared again, but this time Mikhail doesn’t seem to care. Muttering curses under his breath, he marches me to the counter and pries the knife from the butcher’s block. I wince at the gouge in the wood.
Handing me the knife, he points to the half-chopped vegetables. “If you cut yourself, I’ll turn your ass red and blue,” he warns as he heads to the fridge.
“Yes, Master.” I stifle a snort because my ass has been red and blue since the day I got here, but I’m not stupid enough to point it out. I’m sure he could make it even more red and blue, and I’d rather avoid that. Focusing on my task instead, I line up the bell pepper slices and start chopping them. Meanwhile, Mikhail beats the eggs, moving around me to grab salt and pepper. “No basil?” I ask, scanning the spice rack.
“Pfft. We’re not making Italian dinner, Doll. And if you say a word about adding cumin, I’ll gag you.”
I grimace. “Ew. You won’t hear any demands for cumin from me. Does this basement have a vampire infestation problem, though? Because we already have minced garlic here, you don’t need to add garlic powder as well.”
Laughing, Mikhail dumps a liberal amount of the powder into the bowl with the eggs. “There’s never enough garlic, Grace.”
“I think the saying goes that there’s never enough cheese, of which you have pathetically little here,” I point out, gesturing to the small bowl. “That’s not enough for even one tiny omelette. Where’s the cheese grater?”
Mikhail rolls his eyes but points to a drawer and retrieves a block of cheese from the fridge. “Knock yourself out.”
I give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “Thank you very much. I will.”
I think I hear him mumble “brat” under his breath, but he’s smiling, and so am I. In fact, I’m grinning happily as I quadruple the amount of grated cheese Mikhail had ready. My heart is doing crazy flip-flops in my chest, and not because of the cheese. I mean, cheese is great, but cooking with someone like this? Joking easily as we work side by side? Not to mention knowing that he’s going to fuck me senseless later. What’s not to love?
Mikhail groans when I pour a liberal amount of cheese on the omelette he’s deftly flipped over. “I don’t think this classifies as an omelette anymore. It’s more like a cheese delivery system now.”
“There’s never enough cheese,” I repeat sagely. “Besides, it wasn’t an omelette to begin with. It’s a vampire repellent. A cheese-based vampire repellent.”
A playful smack lands on my ass. “And here I thought we were making breakfast.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious. Everything you’ve cooked for me so far has been amazing. Thank you for that, by the way.” I was half expecting to be forced to eat moldy bread or somethingequally disgusting, but Mikhail has been cooking excellent meals for me from day one.
He shrugs. “You’re mine to care for. Of course I will feed you.”
