Page 42 of They Will Burn

I decide to take the stairs to the kitchen because it’s become very obvious how much of my fitness I lost while I was recuperating, and I’ll need to get back into the gym to start building it up again. When you’re racking up enemies the way I am right now, you really need to be able to run and fight, two things I’m certain I couldn’t do right now.

When I reach the kitchen, I breathe a sigh of relief when I find it empty. Have they really left me here on my own? I thought they’d be hovering like mother hens the way they’ve been clinging to me since they brought me back from Charles’s penthouse.

Maybe they just don’t care about you like you think they do, a voice in the back of my head says, and for a split second, my stomach plummets at the thought. What if that’s true? What if they don’t actually care about me and I’m just here as a convenient pussy for them to use when they need it?

But even as I think it, I know it’s not true. At least not for some of them. The way Crew held onto me in the early hours of the morning and how Bishop watched me for every single second, even when he thought I was asleep, just to make sure I wasn’t going to slip out of his reach.

There’re very real feelings here, even if I’m not certain they know what to do with those feelings any more than I do.

I pad across the tiled floor in bare feet until I reach the fridge. In hindsight, I probably should have put some more clothing on for this little expedition, but instead I’m wearing one of Kovu’s shirts, standard attire at this point, with nothing else apart from a pair of panties, a little fuck you to Crew. The cold air has my nipples standing at attention, and the residual need from earlier with Bishop isn’t helping the situation.

I stare into the fridge for a few moments, trying to decide what I feel like eating. There are a few meals prepared, I imagine by their housekeeper, seeing as I doubt any of them know how to cook, but I’m feeling like something in particular.

Now, I’ve never claimed to be much of a cook, because I’m definitely not. I was still young when my mom died, and after that, my father hired a chef to make all our meals, so I had no one to teach me. But I did teach myself how to make one meal. My mom’s secret carbonara recipe.

Allegedly, it’s been in the family for generations, but all I know is when I have it, it makes me feel close to her, and right now, that’s what I need.

More than ever, I wish I had her guidance. In such a short space of time, my entire life has been flipped upside down. I’ve found myself in what I think can be called a relationship with four ruthless men. I’ve taken over our family legacy, and all I really want is my mom to give me some advice, to tell me how the hell to deal with all the changes, and to tell me everything is going to be okay.

A tear slips down my cheek as I gather the ingredients, thanking the housekeeper I’ve yet to see in the flesh, let alone meet, that they’ve stocked the kitchen so well.

Once I have everything I need, I place them on the island and get to work locating the things I need to cook. A couple of bowls, a skillet, and a few knives are set on the counter within moments, and then I’m moving through the familiar recipe I’ve memorized while tears fall against my cheeks.

Maybe if I had some friends, I would be able to navigate all this a little better, but alas, I never allowed myself to get close to anyone, and I think the closest thing I have to a friend right now is Noah Thorne, a man I’ve said all of ten words to in my life. At least he understands the pressure of taking over the family business. But I have a feeling if I asked one of my guys if I could go and hang out with another man, Noah may find himself without appendages he’s pretty attached to.

I swipe at my cheeks as I slice the bacon into small pieces, adding them to a bowl to be ready for when I start cooking.

“What are you doing?” The voice startles me, making the knife clatter to the counter, and I immediately step away from it, knowing if it falls from the marble top, it’s likely going straight through my bare foot.

I look up to find Kaos standing in the doorway, his chest bare and sweaty, making my stomach clench. He has no right looking that good when he’s such an asshole.

Tattoos cover every spare inch of skin, intricate lines along hard muscles I find myself desperate to explore, but I force my gaze up to meet his intense, dark eyes.

“Cooking,” I tell him as I reach for the knife now that it’s stopped spinning. If I look at him for too long, I’m going to be tempted to use the knife in my hand to stab him, and somehow I don’t think that’s going to do me any favors.

“I can see that, Princess,” he rumbles, moving further into the room and causing me to clench the knife in my hand so tight my fingers ache. “Why are you cooking? The fridge is full of food.”

I sigh and allow my eyes to fall closed. I don’t want Kaos to see me in a moment of weakness, and although the nickname he’s chosen for me holds much less malice than it did when I first arrived, it still has annoyance bubbling in my belly. “Do you need something?” I grit out.

“I went to check on you in your room, but you weren’t there.”

“So you came to make sure I wasn’t snooping?” I raise an annoyed brow. “Crew told me I had free rein of the complex, but that’s clearly not the case if you’re babysitting me.”

“You do have free run, Camilla. You can go wherever the fuck you want. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. It’s been a…turbulent few days.”

“Like you care,” I huff under my breath and turn my attention back to the ingredients in front of me. It’s been a while since I’ve made this, and I really need to concentrate so I don’t fuck it up. Like I said, I’m not much of a cook.

There’s silence for a few moments, and I get my hopes up that he’s left, but then I hear the soft footsteps as they move toward me.

Instinctively, I grasp the knife between my fingers in a practiced move, holding it in front of me as I turn to where he’s rounding the island.

My breath catches in my throat, but I don’t back down. He’ll never respect me if I cower to him.

Is that what I want? His respect? I’m not even totally sure the infuriating man standing in front of me wants me here at all, but the way his eyes move over my bare legs and pause at my peaked nipples as he peruses my body tells me something else altogether.

“What are you doing with that, Princess?” An amused smirk slips onto his lips as he nods toward the knife still poised between us.

“Whatever I have to,” I tell him, but there’s a hint of vulnerability I pray he doesn’t hear. If there’s one of these men that I can’t afford to be vulnerable with, it’s him.

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