Page 58 of Shackled

"Sure. But I don't get hurt."

"We'll see about that," she says teasingly.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Lev, let's cook dinner."

"Isabella," I say, exasperated.

"Please," she says sweetly. How am I supposed to say no when she asks me like that?

I bend down and lift her. To her credit, she doesn't protest that she can walk or anything; she just lets me.

"I like when you carry me," she says in a little voice, a hint of vulnerability that’s unusual for her.

I like it.

“Do you?”

"There's just something about a strong guy carrying me that makes me feel… I don't know, protected. And even I can't help but like that, at least a little bit," she admits.

"Well, I'm happy to protect you," I whisper, kissing her.

"I can help you cook," she says, her voice surprisingly steady. “I’m perfectly fine, Lev. It hurts, yes, but that doesn't matter. I don't care."

Is she really this stubborn? This is going to be my life with her. I have to admit, I like it. I'm not the kind of guy who wants things easy. I like the challenge, and I like to fight.

"I'm making dinner tonight, but I promise you'll get plenty of opportunities to cook for me. Maybe you can chop veggies on a stool or something.”

Her eyes twinkle, and her lips twitch. “Maybe you’re not that bad.”

I slide her into a chair. "Sit. Elevate that leg."

"I've never had a man cook for me before," she says with a hint of wonder in her voice.

"Seriously? Most of us cook. Who the hell feeds you?"

She tilts her head, a wistful look crossing her face. “Staff.” She shrugs. “I cooked for myself mostly.”

I rifle through the contents of the fridge and cabinets. “Do you miss Colombia?"

"Yes and no. I miss what used to be in Colombia, not what it is now."

"What do you mean?" I take out vacuum-sealed chicken, then rifle through the cabinets. I chop onions and garlic at the kitchen counter while she tells me.

"When I was a little girl, my father was very occupied with business. But it didn't matter to me. None of it. I didn't care back then. I had friends and a beautiful backyard to play in. I liked to read, ride my bike, and go swimming in the lake by my house. Yes, a little part of me knew that my father did things he probably shouldn't. I would overhear things. And when he and my mother fought…" She looks away and doesn't respond at first. I give her space, sliding the chopped onions and garlic into the sizzling hot pan. "He hit her. It wasn’t unusual for a man like him, but I hated it when she cried. I hated it when he got angry. And I promised myself that would never be me.”

This doesn’t surprise me, but I don’t like it.

"As a little girl, I knew it was socially acceptable, at least in my father's circles, to treat women as second-class citizens. In Colombia, you don’t have to look far for that, even here in America in some places.” I nod, understanding her point.

"Things changed when I began to develop. I wasn't a little girl to be pushed out of the way anymore, but someone who would attract attention. That was a problem for my father." She looks away. "My mother wasn't a fool, but she was every bit under my father's thumb and fully expected me to be the same. She didn't like conflict, except when she lost her temper. She wanted me to avoid the brunt of his anger, so she tried to teach me to be quiet and obedient." Her lips twitch, and her beautiful eyes meet mine. "You can imagine how well that went."

I grin, onions and garlic sizzling in the pan. "Probably about as well as telling my own sister to do that."

"She did teach me some things. And I'm grateful I have those skills. I can cook, and I like my space clean, like you, so in that way, we'll get along just fine. But I have a mind of my own, Lev."

"I know."

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