I feel . . . strange.
It’s almost like my heart got shocked back to life. My ribs ache with it.
I stand from the bed and then stumble into the bathroom.
Once the faucet is on, I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror.
Did yesterday really happen?
Yes, idiot. I’ve already established it wasn’t a dream.
I touch my damp fingers to my lips, which still feel swollen. Is this what it looks like to be kissed until you barely know your name? Forget my name; I look like a woman who got kissed until she forgot how to breathe.
Once my hands are dry and my teeth are brushed, I head back into the bedroom and grab a change of clothes.
I change quickly into leggings and a thick sweater.
Once I’m ready, I open the bedroom door.
The hallway is quiet.
Guards stand at a distance, pretending not to watch me.
I take a step. Then another. As I walk, I realize something unsettling . . . no one is looking at me.
Well, that’s not true, but they’re looking at me like I’m supposed to be here. Like I’m not a prisoner.
I reach the staircase and start down, each step echoing as I descend. I’m almost at the bottom when I smell something baking.
I follow the smell like I’m starving, until I step into the kitchen.
Lorenzo.
He stands at the stove wearing black sweatpants and a dark Henley, sleeves shoved up to his forearms, with hair still damp, like he showered.
He’s concentrating on the stove, a pan in one hand, a spatula in the other. Something sizzles in the background. I cock my head and take a peek. He’s making eggs and bacon.
My brain short-circuits at the sight before me. There is something so sexy about Lorenzo being domestic. I swear my ovaries just exploded on the spot.
Get a grip, Victoria.
The chance of my being able to control my thoughts is lost the moment he turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder and looking right at me.
For a second, his eyes go unreadable. Then his gaze drops—to my mouth. My entire body reacts before I can stop myself.
My whole body is warm. Shit, do I have a fever again? It’s not my fault, really . . .
The man is practically undressing me with his eyes.
My pulse flutters as my face is now officially on fire, or at least it feels like it is.
And to pour salt in my wounds, his mouth curves. Damn. He’s not playing fair. Being this sexy should be illegal. And the way he’s enjoying my reaction? Also not fair.
“You’re alive.” He flips something in the pan with effortless skill.
I blink once, trying to right my thoughts, and not think of last night’s kiss. “Morning.” I step farther into the kitchen, arms crossing over my chest. “What are you doing?”
He slides food onto a plate, then sets it on the island like he’s presenting something sacred. “Cooking.”
