Page 20 of The Taker

“When I ask you a question, Leo, I expect a verbal answer, not a nod. I told you this already, and I don’t make it a habit to repeat myself.”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to tremble as his thumb rhythmically rubs my cheek.

“I’ll have three eggs scrambled, toasted bread, half an avocado with everything but the bagel seasoning, and some fruit.”

I expect him to head back to his office but he stays at the island, watching me gather everything I need to make his breakfast. The eggs, butter, and a large container of mixed fruit are on the top shelf of the fridge, but everything else is a mystery to me. As I open each cabinet, I make a mental note of what’s inside and how I can better arrange everything for synergy’s sake.

Seriously, even a four year old can tell this kitchen wasn’t organized by a professional.

“The pots and pans are in the bottom cabinet next to the pantry,” he comments, as if he can read my mind. “You’ll find the bowls in the top cabinet in front of you.”

I grab a medium pan, setting it on the stove over medium-low heat to warm up. Then start opening drawers in search of a spatula and a whisk while I mentally plan the meal. Before I can sense his presence, Rocco is behind me, crowding me into the counter with a spatula in hand.

“You’ll need one of these,” he rasps in a gravelly voice. He weaves his arm around me to hand me the spatula. I can feel the hard muscles of his body pressing into me, even through our clothes.

I swallow the insane amount of saliva in my mouth before I squeak out, “Thank you.” I’m lucky I can say anything at all with how tongue tied I feel.

He stays in my space while I crack each egg into the bowl. His empty hand now holds onto my waist, each finger digging into my side to hold me in place. I’m too nervous to move…and I don’t think he’d let me if I asked, so I use a fork to scramble them instead. He runs his nose up the column of my neck, setting my skin ablaze. His simple gesture gets me so hot and bothered, I can barely keep my concentration on what I’m cooking. He nibbles on my ear, his warm breath melting me from the inside.

I almost don’t notice when his other arm tips the bowl, spilling eggs down my shirt and pants.

“Oh, that sucks.Oops,” he deadpans, as if he didn’t do it on purpose. “What’s the saying? You have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet?”

I furiously whip around, but there’s so little space between us, I couldn’t smack him, even if I wanted to. He’s pressed so close to me that I can feel his breaths on my forehead and see the flecks of brown and rampant mischief in his eyes. I can also feel his hard length pressing into my stomach.

He thinks I’m the sick fuck, but he’s the one who gets off on taunting his victims, like a big cat who plays with his food before he eats it.

Biting my tongue is difficult, but I can’t afford to lose this job. And he knows it.

“Take your clothes off. Now. You’re a mess,” he orders me.

I try to move around him to go to one of the restrooms but he blocks my way, forcing me to change in front of him.

I burn under his gaze as I undo each button of my shirt, shucking it onto the floor along with my pants, socks, and shoes. The white briefs I have underneath are the only item of clothing I have left because they aren’t ruined.

“These too,” he orders, snapping the waistband. “I never said to keep them on.”

After I take them off, I realize I’m naked in this man’s kitchen, where anyone can walk in and see me…see him watching me. The thought rightfully terrorizes me—but part of me is turned on by the idea of one of his guards seeing us.

What is wrong with me?

Rocco hands me a wet dish towel, and I use it to wipe down the few specks of egg that got on my forearms. Of course, he’s somehow pristine, not a single stain on his elegant suit.

“Well go on, make my breakfast. I haven’t got all day.” He gestures toward the stove with a huge smirk on his face.

I go to the sink to wash my hands and wipe the counter down before continuing. He doesn’t crowd my space anymore, yet he stands close enough to watch me move around the kitchen as I work. The whole ordeal has me so red in the face. I try not to chub up as I carefully scramble three new eggs together in a clean bowl. It’s a miracle I can fan slice the avocado without cutting a finger off.

I’ve embarrassed myself many times in my twenty three years on this earth. It comes with the territories of being an awkward human being and a pseudo father. But I’veneverfelt as unsettled as I do right now, cooking naked in front of Rocco Vettore. His laser-gaze feels like hands roaming over my body,touching and probing me to the point where I almost burn the eggs.

When I hand him the plate, he sits and eats his breakfast like a king, quietly without fuss while scrolling through his phone. He acts like I’m not even there. It’s a complete one eighty from before and gives me whiplash.

“Get me a cup of iced coffee with caramel creamer and two sugars,” he demands.

I wait until I’m turned away from him with my head in the fridge before I roll my eyes. “Of course this stab-happy maniac drinks iced coffee in the middle of the winter,” I mumble to myself.

This time, I hear his footsteps as he stalks toward me. He stops behind me and slowly taps his foot as I take the coffee and the creamer out of the fridge. After I fix his drink, he takes a small wooden cutting board with a handle out of a drawer, and places it on the island.

The unbidden adrenaline rush I feel when I see the cutting board makes my mouth water. My heart races when I think of what he’s planning to do with it. Could this be the consequence he promised me?

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