Page 19

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “By all means, make the kurnik .”

It was a lot of work, and I probably should have cooked something easier that would have let me eat a lot faster. But I wanted to make this for him.

There were so many thoughts racing through my mind, so many things I didn’t understand. Maybe if I could busy myself with cooking, I could start sorting through everything and come up with some kind of plan.

Thankfully, whoever usually cooked here bought things pre-chopped. It was a practice I found wasteful, but since I wasn’t allowed to have any knives, I guessed it was convenient.

I got to work making the dough, kneading it and working out my frustrations in the cold butter and flour mixture.

“Can I do something?” he asked. My back straightened as I stared at him in shock. Was he asking if he could help? In the kitchen? Something every other man I knew would never do. Cooking was women’s work.

“Uh, yeah. Can you roll out the dough while I make the filling?” I asked.

“Show me how,” he said, moving behind me and putting his arms around my waist, caging me between him and the counter.

The thin T-shirt I wore did nothing to stop his body heat from seeping into me. I braced myself on the counter as my knees went weak, my mouth went dry, and my heart pounded.

It was just because of the blood loss.

I said that to myself over and over, hoping that maybe if I kept repeating it in my head it’d become true.

Roman picked up the rolling pin and started rolling out the dough, and I placed my hands on top of his, showing him how to apply even pressure, how to stretch the dough into the desired shape.

“We need two discs. The smaller one we make with about a third of the dough. The larger one is made with the rest of it.”

“Why the size difference?” he asked, his breath tickling my neck.

“The smaller one goes on the bottom, and then the bigger one will form the dome.”

He nodded. I didn’t see it, but I could feel his movement against my hair. Roman pressed into the dough again, leaving a pretty large ditch, and I stifled a giggle that felt light. Felt good.

“Here, try it like this.” I took the rolling pin from his hands and showed him how to stretch the dough into a perfect circle.

For a moment, one brief, fleeting, but perfect moment, we weren’t captor and captive. He wasn’t my enemy. I wasn’t trying to bury his family in ash.

We were just two people in the kitchen with something between us. I didn’t dare give it a name. It was too fragile, too intangible. Like if I named it, or even really acknowledged it, it would evaporate into nothing.

That connection still stretched between us, threading its way into the air, tying us together.

Then I ducked under his arm and stepped away.

I broke that connection before it could break me.

When he started expertly rolling out the dough, I took in a deep breath of fresh, cold air that wasn’t filled with his addictive scent and started making the filling. Thank god he had chicken thighs, carrots, onions, and everything else I needed, including a surprising number of fresh herbs.

I worked to create the filling, trying and failing to block Roman from my mind.

It was impossible. The kitchen was enormous, but he just took up so much space. I had a feeling it wouldn’t matter how big or small the kitchen was, he was the kind of man who filled a space in a way that you couldn’t ignore him.

Or maybe it was that I didn’t want to ignore him.

When the filling was done and simmering in the pot, I rolled out some extra dough and started cutting decorative stars for the pastry dome.

I didn’t need to.

We weren’t making it for a celebration. It didn’t have to be pretty, but it was a habit.

The first thing I learned how to do as a child was cut out the stars, and doing so now made me feel better.

It reminded me of a time when I still trusted people, when I still thought my father had my best interest at heart and I wasn’t a prop used to further men’s agendas.

After I slid the completed pastry into the oven, I hopped up onto the counter and Roman stepped in front of me, handing me a full glass of water.

“Drink this. You’re supposed to stay hydrated.”

I nodded, suppressing a small smile as I took the glass from him.

Roman opened his mouth at least half a dozen times to say something, but nothing came out.

There were so many questions on the tip of my tongue and I didn’t dare ask them.

Not because I didn’t want the answers. But because I wasn’t ready for the answers, not yet. I wasn’t ready for reality to intrude into this little moment that Roman and I had stolen from the rest of the world.

When the kurnik came out of the oven, Roman’s face was priceless.

He stared at the perfect golden dome in awe, like he didn’t quite believe that we had made this together.

I smirked as my hand went to the knife block and wrapped around the black handle of the fillet knife.

His hand whipped out and grabbed my wrist, holding me as I pulled the knife from the block.

A breath passed before my fingers tightened around the handle. This was a test. A silent promise.

I said nothing as I turned the blade toward the pastry and he let me cut into the golden dome. He didn’t release my wrist until I had sliced two pieces and placed the knife down.

Only then did he grab two plates and load the pastry onto them. Despite the hunger gnawing at my stomach, I waited and watched Roman take his first bite.

The pleasure sliding across his features made the extra moments worth the wait. His eyes closed as a groan of male satisfaction rumbled from his chest.

“That is — amazing,” he said.

I smiled as I took my first bite.

“What you made was really good too,” I admitted.

“Yeah, but you should’ve been a chef.”

His words hit me a lot harder than they should have.

I fought the sting behind my eyes and pushed down the memory of a life I once wanted. A different life. A life where my hands hadn’t been trained to kill, but instead to create.

“In another lifetime, maybe,” I said when I looked up to find him staring at me. Watching me with those dark eyes that saw far more than they should.

Roman set his fork down, his gaze locked on mine.

The shift was subtle but undeniable as he leaned forward.

A pull radiated from him, like he had his own magnetic force. There was an unmistakable weight to the moment, and against my better judgment, against every instinct screaming at me to pull away, I leaned forward too. Just enough. Just barely.

His lips were so close to mine I could taste his breath. I could almost feel him…

Until the moment was shattered in a hail of bullets.