Princess

Chapter 14: Italian Night

"Don't blame my sister for your rich-kid habits, princess."

"Fine. Can I blame you, pretty boy?"

That took me by surprise and she knew, with the way triumph flickered in her eyes.

"I'm gonna make dinner so don't judge me."

"Why would I do that?"

She moved around her kitchen, adding water to a pot and chopping up some onions on a cutting board. "You and Bella are like MasterChefs or whatever the fuck. I'm a simple girl. I want my carbs."

"Eat your carbs, then." I waved my hand. She chewed her lip violently and then placed a plain ass piece of bread in her mouth, just holding it there.

She looked up at me.

I blinked.

Was she serious about the carbs thing? So much so that she just ate plain ass fucking bread for food? It was like she was purposely trying to insult me.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

A frowned crossed her features as she chewed, staring me down. "I read on the Internet that if you place a piece of bread in your mouth while you cut onions, then you don't cry," she answered sagely, fully fucking serious about it.

How the fuck was I so consumed with this woman?

"And has that ever worked?"

She sawed her lower lip between her teeth in that way that made me hard as fucking stone and said, "No."

"Imagine my surprise. Are you sure it wasn't on a prank show?" I deadpanned.

She huffed. "You don't cry when you cut onions?"

"I don't cry period."

Her lips formed a feigned pout as she said, "Shame. Must be sad being so out of touch with your emotions."

"I didn't know cutting onions was such an emotional process."

"How do you not cry then? I refuse to believe your lachrymal glands are immune to chemical irritants."

"Nerd," I said under my breath.

"Heard that," she retorted. "No answer for me, then? Sounds like you cry but you're not man enough to admit it."

Jesus Christ why was she so fucking infuriating?

"Use a sharp knife," I answered. "Don't cut off the root until the end."

Her eyes flicked to me. "Huh. And how fine can you cut onions in your non-crying privilege?"

I eyed her cutting board. "Finer than that."

"What did I just say about judging?"

I didn't get to answer because my sister finally stepped out with her arms full of bags, which she promptly dropped the floor and looked over everything Ariadne had laid out over the kitchen counter.

"You got enough for us both, Ariadne?"

Jesus Christ. "Honestly Robyn, I thought we taught you better than to just invite yourself over to dinner—"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Ariadne winked at my sister and took a sip of a glass of wine she'd poured. "You're more than welcome to stay. It's Italian night."

I stood up, ready to leave when she looked at me and said, "You too, pretty boy."

"Keep calling me that and I really am going to need that prescription, Doc," I drawled. Ariadne laughed, clear and melodious, making a sound I want to capture in a bottle and replay forever.

If I had a heart, it would squeeze. This was why I didn't do feelings.

"But if you stay, you're helping," she countered.

"Ah, so you're using me."

"Yep. Take that suit off, Damon," Ariadne said and I shot my eyes up to meet hers. "I meant the suit jacket. Relax."

"You're the one telling me to strip in your kitchen," I drawled.

"Some other time. For now, you said you were taking your sister out for dinner so you better help. Come along now," she purred.

"You know, I think someone's calling my phone," my sister said, half-way to the bedroom already. "You kids have fun," she smiled and shut the door.

Ariadne flicked her gaze over to mine, a challenging smile on her face, the one I loved and hated so very much.

"Alright then, Hale. Let's see what you've got."

Ariadne

It should be illegal.

It should be really fucking illegal for dangerous, murderous princes of the underworld to look so fucking hot all the time. But now? Standing in my kitchen in suit pants and an Armani shirt cooking and slicing up vegetables like no one's business, he looked so sinful I had to stop myself from drooling.

Throwing a cloth over his shoulder à la Antoni Porowski, he diced tomatoes to absolute perfection and even Gordon Ramsey couldn't slice basil thinner than he did. He didn't talk much–I really understood why he was called Silence now–but the man was very good with his hands. The sheer sight of him crushing garlic with a flat edge of the knife was enough to make my thighs clench.

At some point, he took everything off my hands and jerked his chin toward an empty chair for me to sit on. He didn't ask, didn't tell me, just assumed I'd do it. And I did. I didn't think many people didn't do what Damon Hale told them to. He was in full control of my kitchen now, balancing appetizers and entrees like he did this for a living.

We flowed between banter and silence, arguing about something while I took notes at all his technique. If he saw me staring at something, he'd explain it with alarming patience and answer all my questions. I didn't even pretend not to stare at him as he cut up greens, diced vegetables, toasted and seasoned sourdough for croutons–because apparently ones from a bag weren't good enough–and made his own dressing for the salad.

"Who the fuck voluntarily makes a salad?" I asked him.

I couldn't be sure, but I thought I saw his back shaking with a laugh. "I've gotten into the habit because of your sister. She always ate fucking greens first so she filled up on that rather than carbs."

"Sounds like Bella," I murmured. "I think it's bullshit."

"Of course you do," he murmured.

"What does that mean?"

He looked over his shoulder, nonchalantly keeping a pan moving with one hand. "When was the last time you agreed with a popular opinion?"

I bit my tongue. It was in my nature to argue everything, and he'd just called me out on it.

"That's what I thought," he said quietly.

I couldn't even find it in me to be mad at him because I was aroused. By his fucking culinary abilities. Jesus, I needed to get laid.

He'd always been a handsome man but in the dangerous, rugged way that made you afraid to approach him. His demeanor was usually cold for the most part yet in this moment, everything about him was warm and full of life.

"I'm seriously impressed," I whispered honestly. My voice was so soft I could barely hear it.

He looked at me sideways, lips tipped up into the smallest smile. So small, I was afraid I'd miss it if I blinked. I felt like an idiot sitting down and staring at him take charge of my home and my dinner while I relaxed and practically fawned over him.

"I told you, Ryder. Take the—"

"—time to get to know you and I might be surprised. Yes, I'm familiar with that song, pretty boy."

He laughed a rare, hearty laugh. My chest squeezed as a realization slowly crept up on me.

He was very much human.