Chapter 46 Episode 46

But now, as blasphemous as it is, I’m thinking, f**k the Bratva. All I want to do is storm down the stairs and make that little kiska scream my name. I’m on my feet before I even know what I’m doing. Operating on pure autopilot. I don’t even think about it—I just go straight to the kitchen. When I round the corner, she’s got her back to me, washing dishes in the sink and wiggling her hips to the tune of the song she’s singing to herself. The room around her is bursting with life. Bowls and strainers are strewn across the counters between culinary devices I’ve never seen used for as long as I’ve lived here. Spoons and spices and the smell, the smell, oh f**k me—the smell is f*****g divine. I can feel her good mood from here. Evidently, she can feel my presence, too, because she whirls around suddenly—and that good mood withers on the vine. “Jesus,” she gasps, her hand on her heart. “How long have you been standing there?” “Long enough to be able to tell that you can’t sing.” She frowns. “As if you have the voice of an angel.” She rolls her eyes. “Did you threaten someone before you asked them for an opinion? Because, knowing your style, I’m not sure you can trust what they told you under duress.” I move into the kitchen and look around. “Not exactly a clean chef, are you?” “Guess you’re not the only one with a messy professional style.” She narrows her eyes. “Did you just come here to criticize? Or is there another reason you’re in my kitchen?” “Your kitchen?” I laugh. “That was quick.” “So long as I’m the chef here, it’s my kitchen,” she says firmly. I nod slowly. “I can respect that. So long as you’ve respected my menu. I’m looking forward to steak tonight.” Her expression hardens into determination. “You really expected me to follow your bullshit, paint-by-numbers menu for the night?” “Are you telling me you disobeyed?” “Of course I did,” she snaps. “I’m not your dancing monkey; I’m a chef. I used my professional experience to make you a great dinner. Better than the one you had planned yourself.” I take a step toward her. She pretends to stand her ground, but I don’t miss how she subtly scoots backwards until her ass hits the edge of the counter. I don’t miss the fear in her eyes, as much as she tries to hide it. I don’t miss the quickening of her breath. “I’m paying you to do what I want,” I growl in her face. “Well, then you picked the wrong chef. I make my own menus.” “You’ll make me a steak.” Her cheer wilts instantly, but I can see the lingering brightness in her eyes. Say what you want about the girl, she likes a good fight. “You’ll eat what I put down in front of you and you’ll like it, asshole.” “This is the battle you want to go down fighting?” I ask, amused by how stubborn she’s being right now. Infuriated, yes, but also amused. She scoffs up at me. “I’m the one fighting a stupid battle? What about you? ‘Anton want steak,’” she says in a caveman-skewed imitation of me. “‘Give Anton steak.’ For f**k’s sake, you’re such a spoiled brat!” I raise my eyebrows and inch closer to her. “You wanna say that again?” Her eyes flit around the kitchen and then she grabs a knife from next to the sink. “I’m not above stabbing you in the neck, you know.” I laugh. “Do you even know how to use that thing?” “Hello? I just spent the last hour fileting fish. I know exactly where your spine is.” She raises the knife like she’s prepared to use it, but I stride right into it on purpose. She gasps, pulling back, trying to twist the blade away from me so that she doesn’t actually cut me. I grab her hips and hold her in place so she can’t escape me. “Stop it,” she exclaims. “You’ll hurt yourself.” The blade is poking in my chest. Any more pressure and it will break the skin. She stumbles a little, trying to think of an appropriate response to that. “I don’t want to be killed by your people,” she huffs eventually. “That’s the only reason I wouldn’t want you dead.” She pushes back and sets the knife back on the table as though she regrets picking it up at all. Then she turns to me and smooths back the loose strands of hair that have fallen out of her bun. “Dinner will be served in a few minutes,” she tells me in a prim and proper voice. “Now, get out of my kitchen.” When Marina ordered me around, it just pissed me off. But when Jessa does it, it has the opposite effect. It makes me want to bend her over this countertop and tease her until she’s ordering me to f**k her. And then f**k her until she’s ordering me to make her come. Those are orders I wouldn’t mind taking. I let my hands fall from her warmth and step back. “The fish better be good,” I tell her. “Oh, and by the way, you’re going to be serving me yourself tonight. Since you said you liked to work alone, I dismissed the waitstaff.” Before she can protest, I walk out of her kitchen with a satisfied smile on my face. It’s not as good as s*x, but it’s pretty damn close. His ability to piss me off and turn me on at the same time is nothing short of incredible. The moment Anton leaves the kitchen, I clutch the corners of the marble island and take a few deep breaths. I had the most amazing day cooking, trying out different ingredients and experimenting and generally just doing what I wanted for a little while. It took him all of three seconds to change my mood. But it’s not… totally bad? Like yes, he’s a f*****g prick, and yes, he ruined the good vibes I’d been cultivating. But I can’t deny that I feel wired and jittery in a strangely satisfying way, like I’m running on pure adrenaline. Even when he grabbed me, effectively walking right into the knife I had pointed at him, something inside me shivered to life. Chris was right: I can no longer deny that I have a serious problem resisting men like Anton Stepanov. I try to channel my energy into plating dinner, but I can’t turn my mind off. How long will this feeling last? Maybe I’ll grow immune to him. I’ll have to. Because I’ve got three months ahead of me and not nearly enough willpower. “He might have killed his wife,” I whisper to myself as I place little dabs of caviar around the tiger prawns on the plate. “He’s a murderer. He’s a Bratva don. He’s not the kind of man you can bring home to meet your parents. Not unless you want them dead.” I repeat these facts to myself, but by the time I’m ready to serve dinner, nothing has changed. The adrenaline is still pumping. A tingling in my stomach and… lower. The verbal sparring and arguing between us functions an awful lot like foreplay. “Stop it,” I hiss to myself as I walk the tray of food down the hall and towards the dining room. When I walk in, there’s no one there. The light is off. But there’s a glow coming through the crack in the door to the right. I follow it, opening the door to reveal a much smaller, much more intimate dining room. Anton is sitting at an antique table. French doors lead directly out to the pool. He looks like he’s just stepped out of the shower. He’s in casual pants and a t-shirt, a glass of white wine in his hand. I’m not used to seeing him like this. It should be a letdown after getting used to suits and sculpted hair, but I can feel new heat between my legs. What the hell is wrong with me? “Tonight’s meal,” I tell him, placing the plate down right in front of him. “Seared tiger prawns in a lobster bisque with truffle foam and caviar.” He scrutinizes the plate. So much so that I start getting nervous. But I tasted everything before I plated up. I always do. I need to remain confident in my abilities. “Looks good,” he says finally. “I’ll leave you to it then,” I say. The less time I spend with him, the better. He raises his eyebrows. “Leave me to it?” “That’s what I said, yeah.” “Have you forgotten? You’re my waitress tonight.” He wags a finger in the air. “Not so fast, little one.” I put my fists on my hips. “You expect me to stay and… do what? Spoon-feed you?” “Serve me,” he says simply. “Is it so hard to be around me?” But I can see that evil glint in his eyes. He’s doing this specifically to get a rise out of me. Most obnoxiously of all, it’s working like a goddamn charm. He can tell, too. “I’m going to need another glass of wine in a moment. You’ll have to pour it for me.” “Where do you want me?” I sigh, regretting the phrasing the moment the words are out of my mouth. In your bed? On the table? Against the wall?