30. Chapter 30

30

Dimitri

I stare down at the plate, wondering if I've stumbled into some kind of culinary crime scene. The sausages look like charred corpses, and the eggs… Blyat ! Is that even food anymore? It's a fucking massacre.

"What the hell is this supposed to be?" I growl, poking at the burned offering with a fork. "Who the fuck taught you to cook?" The words are out before I can stop them, harsh and cutting.

There's a pause. I look up to see Wren's face go tight, her eyes darkening. She opens her mouth, then closes it. I don't need her to say anything. The answer's written all over her face.

No one did.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken stories. For a moment, I see a flash of the scared kid she must have been, trying to figure shit out on her own. It's too familiar. Makes my chest ache in a way I don't like.

Wren shakes it off first, her jaw setting in that stubborn way I'm starting to recognize.

Her eyes narrow. "It's lunch, you ungrateful ass. Some of us actually cook instead of living off vodka and violence."

I snort, taking in her appearance. Her makeup's smeared, hair a mess, but somehow, she still looks sexy as hell in my shirt. Knowing she's not wearing anything underneath makes my cock twitch. Her clothes from last night are still crumpled by the door, a reminder of how she ended up here.

"This isn't cooking," I say, standing up. "This is a war crime."

She puts her hands on her hips, all sass and attitude. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was cooking for Gordon fucking Ramsay."

I grab both plates and head for the trash. Wren's eyes go wide.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Disposing of evidence," I mutter, dumping the charred remains.

"You can't just waste food like that!" she snaps, looking genuinely pissed. "Some of us grew up with nothing, you know."

I turn to face her, crossing my arms. "And some of us prefer not to die of eating burned sausages. You want to eat that shit, be my guest."

She opens her mouth, probably to tear me a new one, but stops short as I start rolling up my sleeves. Her eyes track the movement, fixating on my forearms. I smirk, knowing the effect it has.

Wren hops onto a stool at the counter, giving me an exaggerated eye roll. But I don't miss the way her gaze lingers on my arms.

"You planning on arm-wrestling the stove into submission?"

Wren's eyes roam over me appreciatively, not even trying to hide her interest. She gives me a deliberate wink and slowly licks her lips. "Well, if the lesson includes you in that apron, I'm all ears… and eyes."

I feel a rush of satisfaction at her obvious attraction, but I school my features. Can't let her know she's getting to me.

I grab an apron from a hook, tying it around my waist. "Someone's got to show you how it's done."

"You… cook, of course," Wren says, shaking her head slightly. She folds her arms across her chest, but the move just pushes her tits up, making it hard for me to concentrate.

"Don't sound so surprised," I grunt, moving to the fridge. "I'm a man of many talents."

She snorts, but I catch her eyeing me like I'm the last piece of cake at a birthday party. "Right. I'm sure your criminal resume lists ‘master chef' right after ‘breaking kneecaps' and ‘looking terrifying in a suit.'"

I pull out fresh eggs and sausages, ignoring the way her eyes follow my every move. "You forgot ‘making mouthy women shut up.'"

Her eyebrow arches. "Oh, really? And how exactly do you manage that?"

The challenge in her voice makes my blood heat. I turn, closing the distance between us in two strides. She doesn't back down, even as I tower over her.

"You really want to find out?" I growl, low and dangerous.

Her breath catches, but there's a glint in her eye. "Maybe I do."

We're so close I can feel the heat radiating off her body. The air crackles with electricity, and for a moment, I think about forgetting lunch altogether and just taking her right here on the kitchen counter.

But then her stomach growls loud enough to break the spell.

"Alright, alright," I concede, stepping back. "Food first. Then we can discuss… shutting up methods."

Wren grins, hopping up to sit on the counter. "Fair enough. But I warn you, I'm a tough critic."

I start cracking eggs into a bowl. "Good thing I like a challenge."

As I start cooking, Wren perches on the counter, her legs swinging like a kid's. It's fucking distracting.

"So, Gordon Ramsay," she quips, "where'd you learn to cook? Mob Chef School?"

I pause, memories flashing through my head. The orphanage. The camp. The smell of blood mixed with cheap gruel. I grip the spatula tighter, knuckles white.

"Survival," I grunt, not looking at her. "In the camps, you either learned to make something edible out of nothing, or you starved. And a dead soldier is useless."

The kitchen goes quiet, save for the sizzle of sausages. I can feel Wren's eyes on me, but I don't turn around.

"Camps?" she asks softly, all trace of teasing gone from her voice.

I snort, bitter. "What? You think the Russian mob grows killers in a garden? We were trained from childhood. Cooking was just another skill to keep us alive between… lessons."

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken horrors. Finally, Wren clears her throat.

"Well," she says, voice a little shaky, "I guess that explains why you're so charming and well-adjusted."

It's a weak attempt at humor, but I appreciate the effort. I turn, meeting her eyes. There's no pity there, just understanding. It's almost worse.

"Yeah," I growl, turning back to the stove. "So, count yourself lucky. You're getting five-star cuisine compared to what I grew up on."

I feel her eyes on me as I finish cooking, studying me like I'm some kind of puzzle she's trying to solve. It makes me uneasy, but I don't tell her to stop. When I finally turn around with the plates, our eyes lock.

There's something different in her gaze now, a mix of curiosity and… something else I can't quite name. It's not the flirty banter from before. This feels deeper, more dangerous.

Wren reaches out, grabbing a piece of egg with her fingers. I should probably tell her to use a fork, but I'm too busy watching as she brings it to her mouth. Her lips form a perfect "O" as she tastes it, and I have to shift to hide my body's reaction.

I take a seat across from her, the tiny table making me feel like a giant trying to fit into a dollhouse. My knees bump against the underside, and Wren's legs are practically tangled with mine. But she doesn't seem intimidated by my size at all. If anything, she looks amused.

"Not bad," Wren admits around a mouthful of eggs. "For a thug."

I roll my eyes. "Such high praise. I'm touched."

She kicks me lightly under the table. "Don't let it go to your head. I still think you're an asshole."

"Feeling's mutual," I smirk, my lips curling up like a damn cat with the cream.

She kicks me again, a wicked gleam in her eye that makes my cock twitch. "Keep pushing it, D. We'll see if your rugged mug can take a punch."

I lean in close, my voice dropping to a low growl. "I'll show you just how far I can go. And trust me, it's a hell of a lot farther than your bitchy little attitude can handle."

Wren's eyes flash, a mix of defiance and something darker. "Or what? You'll spank me?"

"Don't tempt me," I growl, my hand twitching.

She laughs, the sound grating on my nerves. "Oh please, I bet you're all talk."

I bare my teeth in what could barely pass for a smile. "Want to test that theory?"

"Maybe I do," she purrs, lifting her foot to rest on my thigh under the table.

I grab it, my grip firm. "Playing with fire, malyshka. "

She wiggles her toes, inching higher. "I like it hot."

" Blyat ," I mutter, blood rushing south.

Wren's smirk widens. She reaches across the table, snagging a piece of sausage off my plate.

"Hey!" I protest, but the words die in my throat as she brings it to her lips.

She takes a bite, moaning obscenely. "Mmm, so thick… and juicy."