She had her mother’s stew, and that was all it had taken. The taste had reminded her of the woman she missed daily. She tried not to think of her mother because it just made her feel so miserable.
There was a space at the table between herself and Damon. She leaned over and put the pot down on the heatproof mat. Then he opened the lid and put it on the spare oven mitt on the tabletop. After serving herself a generous portion, she sat down and watched as Damon took his seat.
Nibbling on her lip, she didn’t know if she should bother to ask him or let him pick if he wanted it. There was an abundance of food on the table. She saw several steaks, pieces of chicken, potatoes, and roasted vegetables.
The chef hated her.
Most of the staff did, all because she was a Russo.
“May I try some?” he asked, holding out his plate.
She was so surprised that at first, she didn’t even know what to say. “You’d like to try some?”
“That’s what I said, and I don’t like to repeat myself.”
She tried to contain her smile.
He wanted to try her food.
“You’re not worried it’s poisoned?”
“I saw you taste it, and I doubt you’d ruin your mother’s dish just to try to kill me.”
That was partly true. She would’ve made it awful so that each bite made him even more disgusted until he finally died.
Milah didn’t say that, but she did serve him a small portion. Sitting back in her seat, she picked up her knife and fork, waiting for him to try it.
I don’t care if he likes it or not.
He can rot in hell.
As he pressed the spoon to his lips, she waited with bated breath for what he would say. His eyes closed for the smallest second, and then a smile curved his lips.
“Do you like it?” she asked, hating the words the moment they came out of her mouth.
“That is delicious.”
She ate her food, constantly looking at him out of the corner of her eye. He finished the small portion she gave him, and then when he asked for some more, she was delighted. Damon De Luca shouldn’t make her happy, but he did, and to her, that was just wrong.
They ate in silence.
Milah loved every second of the meal she’d prepared. Damon didn’t touch any of his chef’s food. They finished the meal she’d prepared.
Glancing at the table, she knew this was going to cause her some trouble. She didn’t know exactly how, but she knew she’d have to be prepared for the worst.
“Would you like to cook more often?” Damon asked, startling her out of her thoughts.
She turned toward him with a frown. “Pardon?”
“You heard me. Would you like to cook more often?”
“Your chef won’t like that.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what my chef thinks. I’m the boss here. He’ll learn to do as he was told.”
She detected the threat in his voice. Staring at Damon, his dark, penetrating gaze looking back at her, she had to wonder what he was thinking. What was he planning? He wouldn’t give her anything.
His disgust of who she was was clear to her every moment she was in his company. Why would he be nice? Did he feel guilty for what happened in the dungeon or cave or whatever the hell that was?
Why would he?
He was a De Luca. They never felt remorse for anything.
“What will I have to do?” she asked.
“Keep me company every night,” he said.