Page 136 of Lovely Venom

He nods. “We’re particular about our tomatoes.”

I wash them while he gets water boiling, and when that’s done, he summons me over to the stove.

He stands behind me, the heat of his body penetrating mine as he instructs me.

I hate to admit it, but there’s something so attractive about an incredibly competent man. It also doesn’t hurt that he has the patience of a saint, especially when it comes to me.

He directs me with a calmness that relaxes me, and before I know it, I’m learning how to blister tomatoes.

The sauce is deceptively simple, with only five ingredients, and it smells amazing.

When the pasta’s done cooking, Cristian adds that to the pan and lets me stir before he plates it up.

“Is that it?” I ask, feeling like we must have missed some steps because that wasn’t difficult at all.

“Good food isn’t that complicated,” he says. “But there is one last thing.”

My eyes light up like Christmas when he grabs the burrata I didn’t even notice he pulled out.

“You’re weaponizing my weakness,” I groan as he tears it in half and adds each piece to the pasta to melt. “This feels downright pornographic.”

“Only you would say that about cheese.” He presses me against the counter, twisting his fingers in my hair and angling my head back.

“Not just cheese,” I answer a little too breathlessly. “You and burrata.”

“If that’s your kink, I guess we can make it work.” His lips coast over my throat, torturing me with kisses that get progressively more feral.

“If you keep doing that, we might not even make it to burrata.”

He nips my neck, and I let out a yelp that makes him laugh. Then he smacks me on the ass and tells me to eat my dinner.

It all feels weirdly domestic, and a few months ago, it definitely would have freaked me out. But now, I could think of worse things than a hot Italian man teaching me how to cook.

As we sit down, I connect to my Bluetooth speaker and scroll through my Lana Del Rey playlist, selecting one of my favorite songs. A few seconds later, the haunting lyrics to “Hope is a Dangerous Thing for a Woman Like Me to Have” drift from the speaker. It plays for a minute before Cristian reaches over and steals my phone, and I watch in confusion as he scrolls through the same playlist.

He chooses a different song, and it takes a moment to sink in, but when it does, our gazes collide.

It was no accident he chose to play Lana’s “Video Games” instead. They are two very different vibes—one about how perilous hope can be, and the other about the possibility of happiness with the right person.

I get the message, but neither of us acknowledges it.

We eat a quiet dinner together, and after Pepe shows up to collect Goliath, Cristian catches up on a few emails while I read.

Eventually, we end up back in my bed, with him inside me.

It all feels sort of dreamlike. Almost too good to be true.

But I guess that’s the thing about gut instincts.

They rarely steer you wrong.

A violent crash jolts me awake, followed by the sound of blaring alarms.

It takes a second to register that it’s not a dream, and when I open my eyes, I catch a blur of movement in the room.

Cristian is already up, yanking on his pants, gun in hand.

I sit up in a panic, dread prickling my skin as my gaze drifts to the hallway. An orange glow flickers across the wall, reflecting what looks like a fire in the living room.