Page 43 of Ruthless

Substituting squash for the rest of the zucchini costs me the sweatpants. Dante gestures for me again while I squeeze my bare legs together in front of the refrigerator.

“Touching me wasn’t part of the deal.” I attempt a playful tone but must miss the mark because he scowls.

His eyes drop to the apex of my thighs, and my skin flushes from my hairline down to my neck. “My game. My rules.”

When I remain stubbornly still, he sighs and relents. Realizing my reprieve will likely be short-lived, I quickly jump into action. Maybe, if I dazzle him with the food regardless of the errors, he’ll let me off the hook. I rush through mixing lemon zest and ricotta, and while everything simmers, I set ciabatta on a plate since I know he loves to dip the bread in the sauce.

I need to keep this man’s hands occupied at all costs.

The longer I work, the more I remember, and the kitchen grows fragrant with spices. The heat from the stove seeps into my bones, the familiar comfort of the mundane tasks causing everything else to just fade away. It’s the most content I’ve felt in weeks. I don’t even mind my missing pants so much.

Dante doesn’t tease me again, and I peek over to find him oddly transfixed. Not in a sexual way, but more how he used to watch me when he found my behavior interesting.

I tamp down an unexpected surge of disappointment. He probably hasn’t had his grandmother’s recipe in a while. Without meaning to, my movements become more deliberate, more thoughtful. I stop worrying about getting it wrong and simply concentrate on preparing a version of the dish that I think he’ll like.

Twenty minutes later, I spread the lemon ricotta out in a large serving bowl and top it off with the squash and zucchini. A mint garnish follows, along with a handful of roasted hazelnuts, a pinch of sea salt, and red pepper flakes because I like my food with a bit of a bite. Sliding the bowl across the island to Dante, I wait.

As he samples my efforts, I hold my breath, like I’m anticipating the moment when Gordon Ramsey calls me an idiot sandwich. Exceptmyfood critic might kill me if the outcome displeases him. While he chews, I get dressed and then hold my breath. Dante finally puts his fork down with a carefully blank expression.

He crooks his finger at me. I try not to curse aloud as I circle the island without protest. As soon as I’m within arm’s reach, Dante yanks me into his lap. I open my mouth to defend myself, certain he’s still pissed about the squash substitution, but he feeds me a forkful of the dish instead.

“Mmm.” Raising my hand to shield my mouth as I chew, I look at him with wide eyes. “Holy shit. That’s actually not bad.”

When he unleashes the old Dante’s bright, uninhibited grin, the world shifts beneath my feet. The smile disappears a second later, but I still angle away from him as if I’ve been staring at the sun for too long.

Clearing my throat, I admit, “I couldn’t remember all of it.” Of course, he knows that already, but if I don’t speak up, I risk being pulled into his orbit again.

He strokes my hair, his fingers tangling in the curls. “I’ll let it slide.” His voice lowers and becomes gruff. “If you sit at my feet like a dog and clean up for me after I’m done like a good girl.”

My lips part in unmasked shock. “You want me towhat?”

Under me, his muscles draw taut as he snaps, “Sit at my feet. Like. A. Dog.”

My high hopes for dismantling more of Dante’s defenses plummet off a cliff like Thelma and Louise. I swallow a knee-jerk refusal. The only way to get through to Dante is by bowing to his whims. So, if my shame is the cost, then so be it. I slide off his lap and get on my knees in front of his chair.

Dante dives back into his food without another glance at me, apparently trying to see just how loud and messy he can get before I lose my patience. Between animalistic bites of food and sloppy gulps of wine, he sloshes marinated zucchini over the table and onto my lap. I stare at the half-eaten mess, so humiliated and angry that I can’t even see straight. My hands form fists on my thighs, bunching the material of his sweats.

Somehow, I keep my head down, staring at the floor, convinced that if I meet his gaze, he’ll know immediately that I’m not as compliant as I’m pretending.

If I want to earn my freedom and protect the people I care about, I need to play his games.

But is this really the only way to do that?

I grunt in surprise when, a second later, Dante’s bare feet land in my lap. He’s not paying me the slightest bit of attention, and I force myself to swallow past a mortified knot. Dante’s treating me like furniture, but this might present another opportunity for me to break him down a little. Rather than shove him away, I dig my thumb into his sole and massage the length of his foot. I used to do this all the time when we were dating, and his fork audibly slows at my touch.

For the next few minutes, he eats in silence while I massage his feet and ankles. Under my ministrations, the tension bleeds from his muscles, and I savor the minuscule win.

“Does it feel good?” Not especially original, but the goal is to get him talking and also to remind him of my humanity, as well as his own. If I achieve those things, maybe he’ll hesitate to kill me…and maybe my former lover will reappear.

Dante merely mutters in response. I press a little too hard into the middle of his foot, and his eyes—which had drifted shut once he finished eating—snap open. I duck my head. “Sorry. You’ve got a lot of tightness here.”

He smirks. “I didn’t realize you were such an expert on it.”

I revel in the lift of his lips. Another win. “I’ve picked up a few things over the years.”

“Oh yeah?”

Removing his feet, he leans forward and places his hand on my throat, not to hurt but to lay a claim. “Like what?” His thumb tips my head back, and suddenly, his face is mere inches from mine.