Chapter 5: The Blade and the Heat

The kitchen was worth more than my father’s life.

It was a sleek nightmare of stainless steel and black marble. The stove had twelve burners. The fridge was the size of a car.

I stood in the middle of it, holding a packet of pasta I found in the pantry.

"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Pasta. Boiling water. Sauce. How hard can it be?"

Hard.

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen was filled with smoke.

I had turned the heat up too high. The tomato sauce in the pan was bubbling violently, spitting red drops onto the pristine white counter. The pasta water had boiled over, hissing as it hit the flames.

"No, no, no!" I gasped, grabbing a towel to wipe the mess.

I knocked over the cutting board. An onion rolled onto the floor.

I scrambled to pick it up, my eyes watering from the smoke and the onions. I felt like a failure. I couldn't save my family. I couldn't clean a floor without ruining my clothes. And now, I couldn't even boil water.

"Turn it off."

The voice came from right behind me.

I jumped, dropping the onion again.

Silas was standing there. He had changed out of his suit into a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. It was the first time I had seen him in casual clothes. It made him look younger, stronger, and more dangerous.

He looked at the smoking pan. He looked at the red splatter on the counter. He looked at me, clutching a dish towel like a shield.

"I... I can fix it," I stammered.

Silas didn't speak. He reached past me and clicked the burner off. The hissing stopped. The silence returned.

He looked at the cutting board. I had been trying to chop a tomato, but I had mangled it. It looked like a crime scene.

"You hold the knife like a child holding a crayon," Silas said flatly.

He walked around the island and came to stand behind me.

"Pick it up," he ordered.

"What?"

"The knife. Pick it up."

I swallowed hard and picked up the heavy chef's knife. My hand was shaking.

"Stop shaking," Silas murmured.

He stepped closer.

Suddenly, I felt a wall of heat against my back. His chest pressed against my shoulder blades. His legs brushed against the back of my thighs.

I stopped breathing. He was surrounding me.

Silas reached around me. His large hand covered mine on the handle of the knife. His other hand moved to my waist, gripping my hip to hold me in place.

"Relax your wrist," he whispered, his mouth inches from my ear.

I couldn't relax. I was hyper-aware of every inch of him. His scent—soap and cedar—filled my nose.

"Silas..."

"Hush," he commanded. "Pay attention."

He guided my hand. He forced the knife down in a smooth, rocking motion.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

The tomato fell into perfect, thin slices.

"See?" Silas said, his voice vibrating through my spine. "Let the weight of the blade do the work. Don't force it."

He didn't let go. He kept chopping, using my hand as an extension of his own. The rhythm was hypnotic.

I felt dizzy. This was the man who stole my life. The man who humiliated me. I should be fighting him. I should be stabbing him with this knife.

But my body wasn't fighting. My body was melting.

My heart was racing, but not from fear. It was a strange, heavy heat pooling in my stomach.

"Did you never cook for yourself, Clara?" Silas asked, his voice low and mocking. "Did the servants cut your meat for you, too?"

"I... I never had to learn," I whispered.

"Pathetic," Silas murmured against my neck.

He pressed harder against me. I could feel the hard muscle of his chest.

"You are useless in the real world," he said softly. "You would starve in a week without Daddy’s money."

He stopped the knife. He turned his head so his lips brushed my temple.

"Lucky for you," he whispered, "I own you now. I won't let you starve."

He let go of my hand. The warmth vanished instantly, leaving me cold.

He stepped back and grabbed the pan of burnt sauce. He dumped it in the sink.

"Sit down," he ordered, pointing to the bar stool. "I will cook. You watch. And next time... you do it right."

I sat down. My legs were trembling. I watched his broad back as he moved around the kitchen with efficient, deadly grace.

I touched my neck where his breath had been.

I was in trouble. Big trouble.

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