Page 70 of Ruling Scar
“Do you like cooking?” There’s continuously a penchant of awe when she notices something I do. Like she’s amazed I’m not a lonely, empty creature pacing around a glass castle.
Though, I can’t blame her for believing in what most of the world also thinks. Especially since I’m the one telling them what to think.
I’m making a salad to go with our pasta. Garlic bread fills the kitchen and there's an open bottle of wine.
“It’s easy,” I reply, cutting a carrot.
She snorts. She’s wearing black trousers that hug her ass and a pair of socks since she left her sneakers by the front door. “No, it’s not. When did you learn to cook?”
“When I was a kid.” I dump vegetables into a giant wooden bowl and grab dressing out of the fridge ignoring her curious stare.
Our cook Marnie was my favorite adult growing up. At first, because I took pity on her after Yelena arrived and treated her like shit. I made a point to come home after school and sit at the kitchen island, protecting her from her evil employer. Eventually, she put me to work, and knowing it annoyed Yelena, I willingly participated in whatever lessons Marnie taught.
Leonora is unnervingly good at following my brain waves. At the mention of my childhood, she grows somber.
“I meant to tell you—”her fingers play with the edge of the counter—“how nice it was that you checked in on Russet.”
I take out the garlic bread, letting the oven slam shut. “You asked me to.”
“Has, um. . . How are Russet and Yelena?”
Considering she’s the one who sent me that text at Max’s party, I figured she knew something about Yelena. I’m ready to confirm it, though.
“They’re fine,” I mention. As in, Max doesn’t let his wife near his mother. Since most of the family prefers spending time with Russet, it’s an all-around win.
“Oh.” She chews on her bottom lip. Her socked feet are propped up on a different barstool. Albert pads over to her at the sound of her voice, his soulful eyes begging for ear scratches. “That’s good. . .”
“The next time Yelena assaults my sister-in-law, tell me.”
Her dark eyes widen at the demand before she focuses on Albert. “I’m sorry. I should have said something.” She peeks up. “She told you?”
“She told Max.” And now he’s wrangling with the realization that his mother’s a bitch. I tried telling him countless times, but better late than never.
“She’s pretty horrible isn’t she?” She continues to nibble her lip which I try to ignore. Along with the pitying stare.
“Stand up,” I order, marching around the kitchen island.
“What?”
I motion for her to stand. “I never got my hello kiss.”
A blush spreads along her cheeks. She pushes at my chest, but my palms cup her cheeks, my thumbs brushing the skin.
Her eyes strain toward the hand holding her left cheek. She tries to pry my hands off, but they don’t budge.
“Stop,” she says softly.
I kiss her scar.
“Don’t.”
“I’ll kiss my scar whenever I want.”
Her brow creases with adorable confusion.
I gently brush my lips against her scar again. Then on the corner of her lips. She leans forward and I smile before kissing her. If she’s expecting tenderness she’s wrong. I bite her lip and I’m rewarded with access to her mouth when she gasps.
She falls into me exactly like she did when I met her in the lobby outside her office. That in itself is a drug—the way she leans in. She concedes her control to me and I take it every time.
