Page 42 of Ruthless

I gape in wonder. “Are you cooking for an army?”

Dante sits in a chair at the island in the middle of the room and rests his elbows on the butcher block surface. “No. But if all goes well tonight,youwill be.”

Stunned, all I can do is blink. “What?”

Dante steeples his fingers and taps his chin. He seems …amused? The little smirk playing across his lips gives me a bad feeling. “I told you, didn’t I? You need to earn your keep. My chef, Gino, is off tonight. You’re going to take his place.”

Cringing, I eye the kitchen in doubt. “Cooking isn’t exactly my specialty?—”

Abruptly, the smile disappears. “Learn fast. It’s either this or…” His jaw clenches as if he’s trapping words. He shakes his head and glares. “Make yourself useful, Boyd. Give me a reason to keep you breathing for a little while longer.”

I flinch, my pulse skyrocketing. I don’tthinkhe’ll kill me if I refuse to cook—he’s had plenty of opportunities to do so before now—and I doubt such a meaningless rejection will equate to a death sentence. Still, he’s proven that he’s more than capable of making my life hell, and I want to avoid provoking him if possible.

When faced with a more powerful enemy, one must learn to pick and choose one’s battles.

That’s what he said, wasn’t it?

My hand clenches at my side, and my eyes dart between his. “What should I prepare?”

His jaw softens, the tension leaving his posture as if my cooperation relieves him. “My nonna’s marinated zucchini.”

Everything, the fear and the nervousness, dissipates with his warm tone. Dante taught me this dish, and while I used to make it for him all the time, I haven’t been able to bring myself to cook it again after Jeremy and I left for Ohio. I’m not sure if I recall all the ingredients, but hopefully muscle memory will kick in and save me.

“What if I don’t remember how?”

Dante gives me a slow once-over. “Tell you what. For every step you get wrong, you’ll remove a single article of clothing. That should help you focus.”

How the hell is that helpful? I’m only wearing two things, and they’re both yours!

Straightening my shoulders, I start pulling items out of the pantry one by one and setting them on the island.

Dante taps a finger on the counter. “Wrong.”

My head whips in his direction.Already?Scanning the ingredients, I try to identify my mistake. “Which one?”

He shrugs. “Guess.”

I bite back an expletive while racking my mind for my error. Then it hits me.Garlic.Dante’s allergic. How could I forgetabout an Italian’s garlic allergy? If I weren’t so wound up, I might even laugh. Instead, I shove the garlic back into the pantry. Out of sight, out of mind.

He hums before crooking his finger at me. “Take off your bra.”

My jaw tightens, but honestly, that’s better than I anticipated. Reaching under the sweater he’d given me, I unhook my bra and let it fall. I turn to go back to the stove, but Dantatsksin disapproval. “Not so fast.” I stop in my tracks, my dread mounting. “Come here.”

Reluctantly, I circle the counter. I don’t know what to expect, but when Dante hooks his fingers in the waistband of his borrowed sweats and tugs me close, I yelp.

“What are you doing?”

I try to twist free as he cinches the material to my chest, cups the underside of my breast, and swipes his tongue over my nipple. Desire gathers between my legs as he jerks me closer, his mouth closing on the stiff peak denting the fabric. His teeth scrapes the sensitive flesh, and I whimper as he releases me.

“Now try again.” His tone is unusually gruff.

With a scrambled brain and shaky hands, I rifle through the ingredients on the counter, attempting to regain my previous train of thought. When I knock over the pepper, Dante twitches like a cat about to pounce, and my blood pressure spikes so fast that spots dance in front of my eyes.

I don’t know what I’ll do if he gets his hands on me a second time. Both of my nipples are as hard as rocks, and every time I shift the tiniest bit, the cotton brushes my skin. I’m painfully sensitive, and reaching into the cabinet for spices coils heat through me because I know he’s waiting for me to fail.

Maybe I even want to fail just to see what he does to me next.

With trembling hands, I wash and slice the only zucchini I could find in the fridge, dropping the pieces several times in theprocess. The recipe sounds much simpler than it actually is. A little frustrating, but complaining about his grandmother feels blasphemous and ill-advised.