Page 18 of Kept 3
I frown and stare back at him, recognising his threat, powerless to do anything about it, as he raises one eyebrow, challenging me.
“Get it over with then,” I mutter.
He smirks and slowly releases his grip around my waist, so it is less a constraint and more an embrace. I stand stiffly, not pulling away, half of me wanting to raise a knee to his balls, the other half just wanting to get the hell out of this room without any more drama and a small part, a very small part, wanting him to kiss me.
Slowly, he lowers his mouth to mine and gently places a soft, almost chaste, kiss on my lips before releasing me and stepping back.
“Was that so bad?” he murmurs, his eyes dark, hooded.
I don’t answer. I can’t. That kiss had sent shivers down my spine. It was light, warm, intoxicating, and I wanted none of those feelings. At the same time, I wanted more. I know my nipples have hardened, my stomach tightened into a knot, and I know he is fully aware of the effect he has had on me.
I frown and turn to the door. He doesn’t stop me, but I hear his chuckle as I close it firmly behind me and lean against it to catch my breath.
‘Holy hell.’
7
“No Josephine,” Chef repeats, it is not a mystery as to why this dish is unsatisfactory, he points to my failed attempt at faisan en cocotte vigneronne, “there are three reasons a dish fails; technical error, execution error and flavour error – now tell me, which do you think you have made.”
I frown down at the dish. It is basically pheasants baked with red and green grapes. I think maybe, I didn’t cook the birds long enough.
“Chef I think it was an execution error, I skewered them as you showed me, to ensure the juices ran pink, rather than red, but, since they are so tough, there was obviously too much red, too much blood, I should have cooked them longer.”
“Mmm,” he nods, “and how do you propose to rescue this meal?”
“Um, cook them more?”
“Yes,” he laughs gently, “it is not rocket science, Josephine. Put them back in the oven, and when their juice runs clear, and they are tender when stabbed, they are done. But don’t be too hard on yourself; books don’t teach execution.”
I smile in relief.
“Thank you, Chef,”
“Allow them, perhaps ten more minutes,” he smiles, taking off his hat and apron, “and then if you feel your grape sauce is not quite thick enough, add more arrowroot, it should just coat the back of the spoon.”
“Yes, Chef.” I’m disappointed my sauce wasn’t up to par either, but I hide this and get busy as he leaves, turning back to place my failed pheasants into the oven, once more.
I am so busy cleaning up and preparing dessert, that I don’t notice I am not alone until I turn back to the long, pine workbench, to see Nicholas sitting on a stool, chin resting in his hands, watching me. Startled, I allow the side of the hot tray I am holding to touch the inside of my arm, burning a long, straight line into the skin.
“Ouch, far out,” I frown, dropping the tray onto the bench and turning to the sink immediately to run cold water over the burn, noting ruefully that it will fit nicely with all the other burn marks I have on both forearms, some fresh, some just faded white scars.
“Show me,” he says, appearing beside me and gripping my arm before I can stop him, raising it so he can see what I have done.
“It’s just a burn, Nicholas,” I mutter, pulling my arm from his grip and running it once more under the tap.
“You are used to this pain?”
“Pain? No,” I snort, “I’m used to burning myself though, it’s an occupational hazard. And don’t go telling me anything creepy, like your blood can heal me or something, I’m not falling for it.”
“My blood can’t heal, Josephine,” he says quietly, “unless you are kept. Then, it heals.”
‘Whoa, what?’
I turn to look into his earnest eyes.
“Are you for real?”
He shrugs and returns to his stool.
