Page 35 of Stolen Queen

I bite my lip, trying to quell the curiosity bubbling up inside me. I shouldn't care about his tattoos or his cooking skills. I shouldn't notice the way his brow furrows slightly in concentration or how his blue eyes seem to dance when he glances up and catches me staring.

"See something you like?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I quickly avert my gaze, heat rising to my cheeks. "I'm just surprised. I didn't expect you to be so… domestic."

Matteo chuckles. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Princess."

The nickname before felt condescending, but now it sends an unexpected thrill through me. It’s irritating because I shouldn't feel anything but resentment toward this man. I push it away, turning my attention to the activity at hand.

The delicious aroma filling the air reminds me of the meals I've been eating for the past week. "Have you been the one cooking my meals?"

Matteo looks up at me. Then, to my shock, he lets out a rich, genuine laugh. It's a sound I've never heard from him before, and it transforms his face, softening the hard edges I've come to associate with him.

"Who else did you think was cooking for you, Princess? My personal chef?" He shakes his head, still laughing. "Yes, I've been cooking your meals. I hope you’ve enjoyed them."

"I just… I guess I didn't expect you to be able to cook like that."

Matteo raises an eyebrow. "There's a lot you don't know about me. I've always enjoyed cooking. It's… calming." His admission catches me off guard. It's such a normal, almost vulnerable thing to say.

"I can't cook at all," I confess. "Since I was sixteen, I’ve been told how to manage a cook for when I get married and have to run a home, but I was never taught how to cook."

Matteo's expression darkens for a moment, but then he softens again. "Well, that's a shame. Cooking is a valuable skill. And it can be quite enjoyable."

I nod, feeling strangely at ease in this moment.

“Here. Why don’t you come help me? I’ll teach you.” He looks at me expectantly.

I accept Matteo's offer, sliding down from the stool.

“First, you need a glass of wine.” He pours two glasses of red wine. He hands me one, and I take a sip. It's good. While I'm underage, wine is often served with our family dinners. Starting at fourteen, I was allowed to have some, I imagine as part of the process to cultivate me into a sophisticated Mafia wife.

“We’re making pasta primavera." He stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His arms reach around me, his hands covering mine as he shows me how to hold the knife properly. I'm acutely aware of every point of almost-contact between us, my skin tingling not unlike how it did when we kissed.

"Curl your fingers under, like this," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "It'll protect you from cutting yourself."

I nod, forcing myself to focus on the task, not the sensations he’s rousing in me. But as we chop vegetables together, his hands guiding mine, I lean back slightly, craving more contact.

"Your turn.” Matteo steps aside to let me take over. I miss his warmth immediately. It’s frustrating and confusing. This man kidnapped me. Why do I feel so drawn to him?

As Matteo and I work side by side in the kitchen, I begin to relax. The sizzle of vegetables in the pan, the rich aromas of garlic and herbs, the gentle clink of utensils, it all blends into a soothing experience. He’s right. Cooking is calming.

"You're a natural," Matteo says, his voice warm with approval. Like a dumb schoolgirl, my cheeks heat at his praise.

As we plate the pasta, adding a sprinkle of fresh Parmesan and a garnish of basil leaves, I step back to admire our handiwork. It's not perfect. The vegetables are a bit unevenly cut, but it's something I helped make. The only other times I’ve felt like this are when I make jewelry.

“Let’s eat out here. You grab the wine.”

I pick up our wine glasses while Matteo carries our plates to a dining area. We sit, and I take a bite of dinner, a meal I helped create. It’s delicious.

I look up at Matteo, unable to hide my smile. "It's good.”

Matteo grins back at me, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. "Of course it is. You made it."

As we eat, the conversation begins to flows easily. We talk about favorite foods, childhood memories of family dinners, and the best restaurants in Chicago. For a while, I almost forget who we are, captor and captive, criminal and Mafia princess. It’s so surreal. Just hours ago, I was locked in a room. Now, I'm sharing a meal with my captor, one that we cooked together.

I feel confused about our situation. He’s locked me up. Sometimes, he’s cruel. But other times, he’s kind and sweet. I don’t understand the point of all this.

Matteo takes a sip of his wine, his blue eyes studying me over the rim of his glass. "So, Ava, tell me about yourself. What do you like to do when you're not being held captive by dashing criminals?"

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