Page 2 of Delivered to the Devil

Ignoring him, I cast a final glance at the castle. The sunset forms a golden halo around the old building, and wispy, purple clouds lend the sky a fairytale-like hue. It’s almost a replica of the postcard I’ve been dreaming myself away into since I was thirteen.

Fifteen years later, and I’m finally here—away from the nauseatingly yellow rapeseed fields of Southern Denmark.Evenafter three months here, I can’t seem to get enough of this beautiful view.

I make my way inside the restaurant, push through the swinging door to the kitchen, and inhale the delicious scent of chicken and paprika.I know what I’ll be having for dinner on my break tonight.

“Chicken Paprikash again today?” Elek asks, probably reading my thoughts on my sniffing nose. Glancing up from the frying pan, he gives me a lingering look, and his eyes light up with something beyond friendly politeness.

“Yes, please,” I say with a quick smile that can’t be interpreted as the flirty one he seems to be hoping for.

He’s a great cook, and his Hungarian chicken dish alone could almost make me consider dating him. Plus, he’s attentive and helpful. The moment I prop my tray on my hip to make room on the cluttered table, he’s at my side, holding the tray while shoving things aside.

“Thanks,” I say, catching a glimpse of the golden cross around his neck.

My mom would love this man. And that’s more than enough reason not to date him.

“Have you ever had chicken fresh from a farm, Rebecca?” he asks as he returns to the stove.

“No.” Shaking my head, I glance behind him to see the chubby female cook, whose name I can never remember, roll her eyes.Here we go again.

And sure enough, Elek launches into a long monologue about his parents’ chickens—something about a feral dog breaking the neck of one and two roosters getting into a fight.

I listen with half an ear, adding a few polite smiles and nods as I fill the dishwasher. Then I mouth a furtivesorryto the female cook as I push through the swinging door, leaving her to deal with his incessant chatter.

A strange sensation prickles at my awareness as I enter the dining area. I’m not sure what it is, but the hairs at my nape stand on end as if someone’s watching me. But when I glance around, no one’s looking my way. Something does catch my attention, though.

A sleek, middle-aged man at the round corner table stands out like a sore thumb.

I’m not sure what it is that makes him stand out. Maybe his clothes. His sand-colored suit fits his body to a tee, and the Windsor knot on the dark blue tie looks like it’s bound by an English butler. His dark hair is neatly trimmed and combed back in a seemingly windproof hairdo, and his clean-shaven jaw sports the same control-freakish perfection.

He seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t think of where I might have seen him. I’d remember if he had been here or I had talked to him. He’s too significant to forget.

I cock my head as I keep staring, fascination and worry warring to win the upper hand.

His hand rests on the table, fingers holding the handle on the coffee cup as he gazes out over the water without a care in the world. He looks like a man who knows he doesn’t need large hand gestures and harsh words to make the world bow down to him. His sheer air of authority will do the job.

A chill rolls down my spine. This man exudes danger. My brain knows it, but my body refuses to acknowledge it when I try to break away. There’s some faulty connection between my brain and body because authority like this has always been a magnetic force to me. My core hums whenever I stare into the eyes of a tiger; my instincts urge me to bow down when my head screams for me to run for my life.

I startle as the man turns his head, and before I can look away, the warm hazel hue of his eyes ensnares me. But it’s onlythe color that is warm. Underneath the surface lies a coldness so stark and frigid it has goosebumps skittering down my arms.

Stop looking. Stop looking.I try to force my gaze away, but it doesn’t work. Terror thrums in my veins as he seems to take in every little nuance of my fear, eyes honing in on me with fascination.

His lips pull up into a dimpled smile that slowly spreads across his face, forming delicate crinkles at the corners of his eyes and drawing fine lines at the edges of his mouth. It comes so naturally I have to blink to see if I’m imagining it. But I’m not. Even the hazel notes seem warmer. But deep within his eyes, there’s a small place the smile can’t reach—a frozen place that will never thaw. Something so cold that it’s lodged in the very essence of his soul.

My reaction is as instinctive as my irrational curiosity. My eyes flicker to the ground, my cheeks heat, and my shoulders draw inward. A submissive response. An urge to accept his power. But I know how dangerous it is to submit to the wrong man. I’ve heard the stories. That’s why I never submit outside the safe spaces of BDSM clubs. So I square my shoulders, let my eyes glide back up, and focus straight ahead. I’m good at controlling myself like this.

But it’s too late. The warmth in the eyes has receded, leaving a cold, dead stare. The charming smile still shines in his features, but those eyes hold no trace of kindness. They’re icicles covered in dirt. The coldness is almost palpable, swirling around me, making me shiver even though it’s eighty-five degrees outside.

I only have myself to blame. No matter how fleeting my hint of submission was, it was enough to awaken some primal urge within him—a need for power and control.

With my heart pounding and my hands shaking, I set off toward the kitchen. A secluded nook in the back lends me theprivacy I badly need, and I brace my clammy hands on the counter as I heave ragged breaths.

As if on cue, Elek appears. “Are you okay?”

Turning my head, I meet a friendly set of eyes on a harmless face. I should fall for a man like him instead of a dangerous predator like the one in the restaurant. But I have never managed to acquire a normal, sane taste in men. Even the ones I’ve been with at BDSM clubs have often been too benign for me to truly feel the pull. It’s not that I haven’t tried. I’ve been on so many dates with normal, nice men that I have lost count. I’ve even gone home with some of them in the hopes they would awaken something dormant inside me. But it never happens. My body is barren land when explored by friendly hands and warm eyes—as frigid as the eyes on that man out there.

“Just a migraine,” I lie. “It’ll pass in a minute.”

The rapt sound of a clap bounces against the tiled walls as my boss enters the kitchen. “Back to work.”

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