29. Chapter 29

29

Dimitri

T he smell hits me before I even open the door.

Sausages and eggs.

Every fiber of my being tenses almost to the point of snapping as I move inside my own home. The small space means I can see straight into the kitchen from the entryway. And there she is.

My eyebrows knit together.

Is that… my fucking T-shirt?

Wren's standing at my stove, the oversized fabric barely skimming her thighs. My eyes trail down, taking in those long legs that seem to go on forever. Suka .

She turns at the sound of the door, spatula in hand. Her eyebrow arches as she catches me staring. A smirk plays at her lips as she turns back to the stove, one hand on her hip like she owns the damn place.

My mouth goes dry. She looks too comfortable, too at home. Like she belongs here or some shit. It's unsettling as hell.

I grunt, trying to shake off the weird feeling in my gut.

"You're back early, hon, " she teases, not looking at me. "Thought you'd be out cracking skulls all day."

I grunt again, moving closer. The domesticity of the scene is fucking with my head. "Got nowhere. Useless piece of shit didn't know anything."

She glances over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. "So you came home to sulk?"

What in the ever-loving fuck is this? I'm Dimitri, the goddamn mafia killing machine. I don't do butterflies in the stomach and shit like that. But this woman, she just said " hon " and " home " like we're some goddamn Brady Bunch, and my heart's suddenly acting like a pubescent schoolboy. If I wasn't so goddamn turned on by her, I'd probably break her nose for throwing me off balance.

"I don't sulk," I growl, but there's no real heat in it.

Wren snorts, flipping a sausage. "Right. And I'm not currently frying up a greasy breakfast in your sad excuse for a kitchen."

I lean against the counter, watching her. The way she moves in my space, it's… unsettling. "Didn't know you could cook."

"I'm full of surprises," she says dryly. Her eyes flick to the fridge, which I'd stocked before bringing her here. "Though I gotta say, I'm impressed. Didn't peg you for the grocery shopping type."

"Don't usually bother. But you needed food, so…" I shrug. But I'm lying, and she can probably see right through me. The truth is, I like cooking. I like the control. The precision. It's like being a mob boss but in the kitchen. And I feel a strange satisfaction when my fridge is stocked. Call me crazy, but it's just one of those things. So, yeah, I'll lie to Wren about it.

Suka, I like the way she's in my kitchen.

She turns, hands on her hips. The sight of her in my shirt does something weird to my insides.

"Well, I do," she snaps. "And I'm going stir-crazy. When can I go back to work?"

"You can't," I say flatly.

Her eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Not safe."

Wren slams the spatula down. "Piss off and die in a ditch, you fuckwad ! I have bills to pay, D. My siblings—"

That dirty, sultry voice sends a bolt of electricity straight to my balls when she curses.. Holy fuck, that shit is hotter than a goddamn furnace. Her filthy mouth makes my cock stand at attention, ready to pound that sweet body into submission.

I push the lusty thoughts down, as if stuffing them into a prison cell deep inside my brain.

"Are fine," I cut her off. "I've got people watching them."

She blinks, surprise replacing anger. "You… sure?"

" Da. " I shift, uncomfortable under her stare. "Made sure they're taken care of. Food, rent, whatever."

Wren's quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, "Well… Thank you."

The sincerity in her voice makes me squirm. I clear my throat. "Food's burning."

"Shit!" She whirls back to the stove.

I watch her scramble to save the egg, something warm and unfamiliar settling in my gut. Blyat . This woman's got my balls wrapped around her little finger.

And the most fucked up thing? It's not that she's in my home, under my roof, in my goddamn space. No, that's not the worst part. The real mind-fuck is…

I fucking like it.