I start cracking eggs into a bowl. “Good thing I like a challenge.”
As I start cooking, Wren perches on the counter, her legs swinging like a kid’s. It’s fucking distracting.
“So, Gordon Ramsay,” she quips, “where’d you learn to cook? Mob Chef School?”
I pause, memories flashing through my head. The orphanage. The camp. The smell of blood mixed with cheap gruel. I grip the spatula tighter, knuckles white.
“Survival,” I grunt, not looking at her. “In the camps, you either learned to make something edible out of nothing, or you starved. And a dead soldier is useless.”
The kitchen goes quiet, save for the sizzle of sausages. I can feel Wren’s eyes on me, but I don’t turn around.
“Camps?” she asks softly, all trace of teasing gone from her voice.
I snort, bitter. “What? You think the Russian mob grows killers in a garden? We were trained from childhood. Cooking was just another skill to keep us alive between… lessons.”
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken horrors. Finally, Wren clears her throat.
“Well,” she says, voice a little shaky, “I guess that explains why you’re so charming and well-adjusted.”
It’s a weak attempt at humor, but I appreciate the effort. I turn, meeting her eyes. There’s no pity there, just understanding. It’s almost worse.
“Yeah,” I growl, turning back to the stove. “So, count yourself lucky. You’re getting five-star cuisine compared to what I grew up on.”
I feel her eyes on me as I finish cooking, studying me like I’m some kind of puzzle she’s trying to solve. It makes me uneasy, but I don’t tell her to stop. When I finally turn around with the plates, our eyes lock.
There’s something different in her gaze now, a mix of curiosity and… something else I can’t quite name. It’s not the flirty banter from before. This feels deeper, more dangerous.
Wren reaches out, grabbing a piece of egg with her fingers. I should probably tell her to use a fork, but I’m too busy watching as she brings it to her mouth. Her lips form a perfect “O” as she tastes it, and I have to shift to hide my body’s reaction.
I take a seat across from her, the tiny table making me feel like a giant trying to fit into a dollhouse. My knees bump against the underside, and Wren’s legs are practically tangled with mine. But she doesn’t seem intimidated by my size at all. If anything, she looks amused.
“Not bad,” Wren admits around a mouthful of eggs. “For a thug.”
I roll my eyes. “Such high praise. I’m touched.”
She kicks me lightly under the table. “Don’t let it go to your head. I still think you’re an asshole.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” I smirk, my lips curling up like a damn cat with the cream.
She kicks me again, a wicked gleam in her eye that makes my cock twitch. “Keep pushing it, D. We’ll see if your rugged mug can take a punch.”
I lean in close, my voice dropping to a low growl. “I’ll show you just how far I can go. And trust me, it’s a hell of a lot farther than your bitchy little attitude can handle.”
Wren’s eyes flash, a mix of defiance and something darker. “Or what? You’ll spank me?”
“Don’t tempt me,” I growl, my hand twitching.
She laughs, the sound grating on my nerves. “Oh please, I bet you’re all talk.”
I bare my teeth in what could barely pass for a smile. “Want to test that theory?”
“Maybe I do,” she purrs, lifting her foot to rest on my thigh under the table.
I grab it, my grip firm. “Playing with fire,malyshka.”
She wiggles her toes, inching higher. “I like it hot.”
“Blyat,” I mutter, blood rushing south.
