Page 83 of Merciless Sinner

“I’ve never had beef like that before.” She wrinkles her nose when she looks at the sauce.

“This is one of your favorite meals.”

At first, she looks surprised, then realization forms on her face as she figures out what I’m doing.

"This is one of your favorite meals thatIcook,” I clarify.

“Then I’m sure I’ll love it.” She gives me a little smile.

“I’m sure you will. How are you feeling?”

“The same as five minutes ago when you asked me.” She grins.

“Just checking on you.” She’s right, though. I’m doing that overprotective, obsessive thing again.

“My mind feels looser,” she mutters in a cautious voice.

I pause to look at her. “Looser?”

“Yes. Like something came free since the memory. But it’s like the start of a headache that doesn’t come. That tight tension isn’t there anymore, so that must be something good, right?”

“I think so.”

“I’m just nervous.”

“Don’t be. I’m here,” I assure her.

“I know.”

When Dr. Belmont spoke to me privately, he expressed that maybe the memory came because she’d opened up to me. His advice was to be there for her as much as possible, so I will.

When we get home, I’m taking time off from the club. I’ll still go to Antonovs, but only for a few hours a day.

“Here and cooking for me.” Her former chirpiness returns.

“Yes, and you’re about to find out that there are other things I can do with my hands.” I said that to make her blush, and it works like a charm.

As the steak is thin, it cooks within a few minutes, so I slice off a bit of the end, stab a fork into it, and hold it out for her to taste.

"Come here." I allow the fork to dangle between my fingers.

She looks at me with hesitation. "You want me to taste it?"

"Yes, just taste it."

She swallows hard, closes her eyes for a moment as if she's praying, then leans toward the fork. She opens her mouth and bites the steak.

Seconds later, her face is filled with pleasure. I love seeing pleasure on her face, in whatever capacity it gets there.

"Oh my gosh. This tastes really, really good."

"See?"

"It's amazing. Where did you learn to cook like this?"

I probably should have known she would ask that question when she tasted the food. I hope my answer won't make her sad.

"Your mother taught me," I reply, and instantly, the sadness I hoped wouldn't come fills her eyes.

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