Page 25 of The Villain
“Cassian,” I say, walking toward what is now the fully functioning, beautiful kitchen with a stunning Aga stove at the heart. The counters are a sleek marble with what must be custom modern appliances. The windows along the back wall are arched and wrought with iron, the glass stained with scenes I could study all day and not get enough of. I notice below those tall windows shorter ones have been installed, these only made to lookold. He has opened two to let in the bright sunshine in spite of the freezing air.
“Wow,” I say, as he pours coffee and holds the mug out to me.
“I know,” he says. His mouth stretches into a wide smile. I take it in, my lip curling into a sneer. He’s too smug.
“It is impressive,” I continue, taking the mug, watching that satisfied smile widen. “If you don’t mind a graveyard for your backyard I mean,” I add, enjoying how his face falls.
“Cream and sugar are there.” He points.
“I take it black.”
He turns back to the stove where a pan is warming. “You eat bacon and eggs?” he asks, glancing at me. I nod, my stomach growling loud enough for him to hear.
“I didn’t have dinner,” I say, feeling embarrassed.
“You should have told me you were hungry last night.”
“When? Before or after you stripped and beat me?”
He glances at me over his shoulder, amused. “I didn’t beat you. I spanked you. Which you and I both enjoyed.”
“Fuck off.”
He chuckles. “Well, I don’t plan on starving you. Sit.”
“Since you brought it up, what do you plan to do with me?” I ask. Since our casual interaction this morning, since that banter, I’ve nearly forgotten that I’m his prisoner and to do that would be a mistake.
He won’t hurt me, I tell myself. If he was going to hurt me, he wouldn’t have me sitting in his kitchen whilehe cooked for me. I’d be in some damp, dark basement, freezing, starving. Losing all hope.
No. Stop it.
I shake my head to stop my brain from continuing down that road. This isn’t that. This is different. This is nothing like that.
I slide into a seat at the counter which would once have been the altar. It feels weird. Like it shouldn’t be allowed or something.
“Scrambled okay?” he asks.
“It’s fine.”
He cracks four eggs into the pan then breaks the yokes. I watch him cook. It’s weird, like it was weird to see his bare feet. This is so domestic.
“You don’t have someone cooking for you?” I ask taking in his broad back, noting how the muscles work beneath the white button down.
“I enjoy it. It relaxes me.” He plates breakfast and carries both dishes over along with two forks and one knife. I guess he’s not taking any chances. I pick up a fork and eat some eggs. I’m starving.
He sits across from me and watches me eat for a minute while just sipping his coffee like he’s considering something.
“Why aren’t you eating? Is it going to make me sick or something?”
He smiles, eats a strip of bacon. “Nope.”
“Are you going to answer me?”
“You’ll be safe.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just what I said.”
