Page 29 of Ruined By Capture

"And you can consider it the perfect time for a cooking lesson." She tilts her head, studying me. "In case you're ever stuck with a princess who also doesn't know how to cook."

I move closer, deliberately invading her space until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Why would I waste time learning to cook when I can pay people to do it for me? The way I prefer to do everything."

She gulps at that but doesn't back away. "Because sometimes you can't rely on people even if you toss money in their lap. Like now."

Our eyes are bolted together in silent battle. Neither of us can forget that I”m the captor, but that she offered me more money than most will ever see to give her what she wanted. I could easily shut this down—remind her of her current position but her hot-blooded challenge and fiery tongue have me intrigued.

"Fine," I concede, stepping back. "But I’m only doing this so we can get back to work faster."

A hint of triumph flashes in her eyes. "Fill a pot with water and put it on to boil," she instructs, turning to gather ingredients from the refrigerator.

I grab a large pot from beneath the counter and fill it at the sink, watching her from the corner of my eye as she movesaround the kitchen with surprising confidence. For someone raised with servants, she seems comfortable in this space.

"Add salt to the water," she says, placing pancetta, eggs, and cheese on the counter. "A lot of it. The pasta water should taste… like the sea."

I do as she says, somewhat perplexed by the way she looked at me and the tip of her tongue slid across her lip when she mentioned the sea salt.

CHAPTER 10

Ifocus on chopping the pancetta, giving my hands something to do besides twist my mother's ring.

"Carbonara is simple but it's easy to mess up," I say, breaking the silence that hangs between us. The kitchen feels too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator and bubbling water not enough to fill the space. I've always needed conversation or music while cooking—silence makes my thoughts too loud.

I feel the knife’s weight in my hand. "We need to grate the Parmesan and beat it into the eggs."

Alessio stands against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze follows each movement of the knife.

"You can do more than boil water, I'm certain of it," I snap.

He stands there like a stubborn dog refusing to take direction. For a moment I think he'll refuse then he pushes off the counter, moving with predatory grace that makes my pulse quicken. He pulls the grater in the third drawer he checks, then picks up the huge block of Parmesan.

"How much?" he asks.

"About a cup, grated fine," I reply, getting back to dicing the pancetta. The knife makes a satisfying thud against the cutting board. "My mother taught me this recipe when I was twelve. She said every Italian should know how to make proper carbonara."

I don't know why I'm sharing this with him. Maybe because cooking always makes me think of her, or maybe because the silence feels too heavy. As is the way he keeps his eyes fixed on the knife. Like he thinks I may lunge at him.

Alessio positions himself at the counter beside me, close enough that our elbows nearly touch.

"You're gripping that cheese too hard," I observe his white-knuckled hold on the block. "You'll make it start to sweat…” I tease, loving how a befuddled twinge passes through the bulge of muscle in his bicep…” and then what will you do with it?"

His eyes bat up to mine and flare with heat. There’s a soft glisten of sweat on his brow and when one of his glossy black curls sticks to his forehead I have the strangest urge to curl it back around my finger.

My provocative retort hangs between us for a beat, then another and the boiling water sends steam floating around us like a miasma.

"Like this?" he breaks the moment brusquely, turning back to the task.

I nod, returning to the pancetta. "Perfect. See? Not so difficult."

Why is disappointment spiraling through my chest?

I toss the pasta into the boiling water, the familiar ritual steadying my hands.

"Your mother taught you well," he comments. "What happened to her?"

My hand freezes mid-motion. I look up at him, studying his face. "You must know what happened to her. I'm sure your file on me is quite thorough."

Alessio's dark eyes hold mine, unwavering. "That's not what I meant," he says. "I know she died when you were sixteen. Cancer. I know the facts. What I don't know is who she was to you."

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