Page 78 of Her Darkest Possession

Like he's showing just how much he cares for and about me.

Unexpected flavors bloom across my tongue, and I'm shocked by the proper blend of taste and texture.

It tastes just like I remember. And when I close my eyes to savor the taste, I can practically hear my mom's voice whispering at my ear.

Unbidden tears spring to my eyes.

"It tastes right," I whisper. "It actually tastes like hers."

Something about this small victory of recreating my mother's recipe on this strange, broken Thanksgiving feels significant.

"Maybe the secret ingredient is that you know you're about to become a mom yourself." Anatoly sets down his spoon and reaches for my hand. "Maybe that's why it tastes the way that it should right now."

I can't help but laugh. "Being a mom doesn't automatically make someone a good cook. I've known plenty of mothers who couldn't boil water without burning it."

"That's not what I meant," he says, shaking his head. His expression turns thoughtful. "Being a good mother means you're cooking not by some rules, but by feel. To make changes on the fly. To add a pinch of extra salt. A spoonful more butter than the recipe calls for. All because you're thinking about the people you're cooking for. That's what makes the difference."

"I've been cooking for Amara for a while now and that hasn't happened."

"That's different," he says. "When you were cooking for your sister, you were surviving. Putting food on the table just so that you wouldn't go hungry for the night. You didn't have a chance breathe. To stop."

He scoops another spoonful of mashed potatoes into my mouth.

"To feel."

The sentiment is so unexpectedly sweet coming from him that I don't know how to respond. God, it's crazy just how paradoxical this man can be. On one hand, he's fully capable of murderingpeople with his bare hands, and ordering death without hesitation.

And on the other hand. Here he is, feeding me tender spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and talking about love being the secret ingredient that I've been looking for this whole time.

He pushes his chair back slightly and opens his arm.

"Come here," he says softly.

I hesitate for just a moment before standing up and settling onto his thighs. He presses a gentle kiss against my shoulder and shifts on the chair to accommodate my body on his.

A shot of warmth pours through my veins and chases away the chill that's kept a strong grip around my throat all night while I waited for him to return. Tension ebbs from my shoulders, and I sigh softly, realizing that I've been holding onto this single final breath this entire time.

His free arm rises, and he plays with an errand strand of hair hanging by my ear.

"This is what matters," he murmurs against my hair. "This right here."

He picks up a forkful of chicken and holds it to my lips. I take it, savoring both the taste and the intimacy of being fed by him.

"Love changes everything," he continues in hushed tones between bites. "The food. This house." He pauses, pressing a kiss to my temple. "The people who live inside of it."

I lean back against his chest, feeling truly safe for the first time since I saw him being handcuffed. "You really believe that?"

"I do now," he answers, feeding me another bite. "I never did before you."

I think back to those first moments we shared. The terror I felt when he walked into the barbershop. How even his voice was when he told me he came to kill me, only to shield me with his own body when bullets shattered the windows.

Who would have thought we'd end up here?

It's almost impossible to imagine the Anatoly I met that day in the barbershop holding a woman in his lap like this, tenderly feeding her one bite after another.

It's impossible to imaginethatAnatoly doing anything other than using an opportunity to assert his power rather than doing something because he cares about someone.

Yet here we are.