Page 120 of Dangerous Beginnings

The cabin is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels alive with anticipation. Aslanov stands at the stove, his sleeves rolled up, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he stirs a pot with measured precision. The scent of garlic and spices fills the air, a rich warmth that contrasts with the icy tension that always seems to linger between us.

He is finally here, with me.

I sit at the table, watching him. It’s rare to see him like this—focused, domestic, almost gentle. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves, controlled and deliberate like he’s crafting something more than just dinner. I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips as he tastes the sauce, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“Are you always this serious about cooking?” I tease, resting my chin in my hand.

He glances at me, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s important to get it right, solnyshko. You deserve the best.”

His words send a flicker of warmth through me, but before I can respond, he steps away from the stove and carries the pan to the table, dishing out plates of steaming pasta. He sets one in front of me with a flourish, his smirk deepening when he sees my expression.

“Impressed?” he asks, leaning on the back of his chair, his hands resting on the wood. His presence is magnetic, and I find myself nodding before I can think of a clever reply.

He finally sits, his movements unhurried as he pours wine into two glasses, sliding one toward me. “Eat,” he orders gently. His voice carrying that commanding tone that always makes my heart race.

I take a bite, and it’s delicious—rich and perfectly seasoned. “Okay,” I admit, “this might actually be the best pasta I’ve ever had.”

“Of course it is,” he says, leaning back in his chair, his hand wrapping around his glass. His gaze fixes on me, dark and intense, like he’s studying me again, dissecting every flicker of my expression.

Aslanov leans back in his chair, his hand wrapped around his glass of wine, but he doesn’t drink. His gaze is distant, the lines of his face sharper than usual, as though he’s carrying a weight too heavy to bear. His other hand rests on the table, fingers splayed, the knuckles bruised and raw from a lifetime of fists and force.

I can tell he’s somewhere else, his mind miles away, locked in a battlefield I’m not allowed to see. His expression hardens, the faintest twitch in his jaw betraying his thoughts. He’s thinking about them—his enemies, the shadow of betrayal that’s crept into his empire. I don’t know the details; he keeps that from me, locking those truths behind walls too high for me to scale. But I know enough.

It weighs on him, I can see that. And not just his business—us. What we are, whatever this fragile, unspoken thing is between us, and how we will navigate it. It’s there in the way his hand tightens around the glass, his eyes dark and unreadable as if he’s fighting some invisible war.

The tension between us grows thicker, suffocating the warmth the fire and the meal should bring. Aslanov’s gaze shifts to the table, his hand tightening around the stem of his wine glass until his knuckles whiten. It feels like standing on the edge of a cliff,the ground beneath us crumbling, yet neither of us dares to leap—or to step back.

“You can talk to me,” I say softly, breaking the silence. My voice trembles, but I force myself to meet his gaze when his eyes flicker to mine. “You know that don’t you? I’m here, Aslanov.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, a sound more bitter than relief, and leans forward, rubbing his face with both hands. His fingers drag down slowly, his frustration etched into every movement, and for a fleeting moment, I see the man beneath the iron exterior—the one who’s not a king, not a criminal, just a man weighed down by too many burdens.

“I can’t,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and low, like it costs him something to admit even that. “You think you want to hear it, but you don’t, Isabella. Not this.”

“Yes, I do,” I insist, my voice firm despite the tightness in my chest. “I don’t care how heavy it is. I want to carry it with you.”

His eyes meet mine then, sharp and piercing, and without another word, he pushes his chair back slightly and closes the space between us in one swift motion. He grabs the edges of my chair, his movements so deliberate it takes my breath away, and pulls me closer, the scrape of the wood against the floor echoing through the room. The sudden proximity is electric, his presence overwhelming, and when he stops, we’re almost touching, his knees brushing mine, his dark eyes locking onto me with an intensity that burns.

“I’m not going to burden you with this,” he says, his voice low but resolute. His hands grip the sides of my chair, caging me in, but it’s his words that make me feel trapped. “Not with what’s going on, not with what’s in my head.”

“Why?” I demand, my voice rising, heat building in my chest. “Why do you always think you have to do this alone?”

“Because I do!” he snaps, his tone cutting like a whip. He leans closer, the heat radiating off him as his jaw clenches, his controlslipping. “Because I don’t get to be weak. I don’t get to share the weight. That’s not how it works.”

My heart twists at his words, at the rawness in his voice that he tries so hard to mask. “You’re not weak for feeling,” I say, my voice softer but no less insistent. “You’re not weak for letting someone in.”

He laughs, bitter and sharp, and the sound slices through me. “You think this is about feelings? About me not wanting to let you in?” He leans back slightly, his hand dragging down his face again, as if trying to wipe away the storm brewing inside him. “You don’t understand, Isabella.”

“Then make me understand,” I plead, leaning forward, my hands clutching the arms of my chair. “Tell me, Aslanov. Tell meanything. Even if it’s just—” I hesitate, my voice catching. “Even if it’s just that you’re scared.”

His eyes snap to mine, his expression sharp and almost pained. “Scared,” he repeats, the word like a challenge on his lips. He shakes his head, his hand gripping the back of my chair as he exhales harshly. “You want me to tell you I’m scared? Would that make you feel better?”

I don’t answer, my throat tight as his words lash out.

“Fine,” he says, his voice dropping, his tone dark and full of venom—not at me, but at himself. “You want the truth? I’ll give you the truth. I’m scared.” He practically spits the word, his jaw tightening as he looks away. “Scared that I’m going to fail. That I’m going to let someone else slip through my fingers, someone who matters more than I know how to say.”

My breath catches in my chest, but he’s not done.

“Scared that no matter how hard I fight, no matter how many I destroy, it won’t be enough. That I’ll never be enough.” His hand clenches into a fist on the table, the knuckles white and trembling. “There. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

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