Page 2 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)

Yulia

Eleven Years Later

I paused in the doorway to the kitchen, my breath catching at the sight before me.

Salvation stood at the stove, his broad back to me as he stirred something that filled the air with a rich, savory scent.

Beside him, Clover frowned at a textbook, pencil tapping against the page.

Salvation turned to point at something, his voice a low, patient rumble.

The domesticity of it struck me like a physical blow -- this simple moment between father and daughter.

A life I’d never known, never thought I’d be part of.

Yet here I was, hovering at the edge, not quite in, not quite out. Always watching.

“If you divide both sides by three, what do you get?” Salvation asked, not missing a beat as he expertly chopped some herbs, the knife flashing in his steady hands.

Clover sighed dramatically. “X equals twelve.”

“Good.” He scraped the herbs into the stew. “Now try the next one.”

I leaned against the doorframe, mesmerized by his movements.

For such a powerful man, Salvation handled each task with surprising gentleness.

Not just the cooking, but also the way he handled Clover.

My own father had been nothing like Salvation.

I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the man's every move.

His forearms flexed with each motion, the sleeves of his T-shirt stretched tight around solid biceps.

“This one has two variables,” Clover complained, yanking me from my thoughts.

“Start with what you know,” Salvation replied, giving the stew a good stir. “Isolate one variable, then solve for it.”

The scent of our dinner cooking made my stomach growl. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until now. Salvation glanced over his shoulder at the sound, and our eyes met briefly. My cheeks warmed. I looked away first.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, his voice softer than when he’d been explaining equations. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. When I looked up again, he’d already turned back to the stove.

My gaze traced the strong line of his shoulders, the way his dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck.

In moments like this, I could almost forget he was Kye, the man who’d rescued me.

The man I’d married -- on paper, at least -- for protection.

Here, in this kitchen, he was just Salvation. A man cooking dinner for his family.

Family . The word still felt foreign, uncomfortable.

Like clothes that didn’t quite fit. I shifted my weight, and my sleeve rode up.

The silvery scars on my wrist caught the light.

A harsh reminder of where I’d been, what I’d almost done.

Well, what I’d nearly done again because that hadn’t been my first attempt.

I tugged my sleeve down quickly, heart pounding.

“You just going to stand there all night?” Clover asked, breaking into my thoughts. Her eyes, too knowing for her sixteen years, flickered between me and Salvation.

“I… no.” I pushed away from the doorframe and approached the table, sliding into the chair across from her. “How’s the homework going?”

“It’s going,” she muttered, then brightened. “But Dad’s a good teacher.”

Salvation snorted softly at the stove. “Don’t let your actual teachers hear that.”

I watched as he stirred the pot, then bent to check something in the oven. The simple domesticity of it all made my chest ache with longing. For what, I wasn’t entirely sure.

“The trick with these equations,” Salvation continued, straightening up and wiping his hands on a towel tucked into his back pocket, “is not to overcomplicate them. Break them down, one step at a time.”

If only life were that simple, I thought. Break down the complications. Solve for the unknown .

Salvation moved to the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of water. His T-shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of tanned skin above his jeans. I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to the table.

“Dad, can you check this one?” Clover pushed her notebook across the table.

Salvation set his water down and leaned over her shoulder, one hand braced on the table. His proximity made my skin prickle with awareness. He smelled like spices and something uniquely him -- clean sweat and soap.

“You dropped a negative here,” he said, pointing. “Try again.”

Clover groaned but bent back over her work. Salvation returned to the stove, stirring the contents of the pot before adding another handful of chopped herbs.

I realized I’d been staring again when Clover’s foot nudged mine under the table.

I blinked, meeting her gaze. Her eyes darted meaningfully between me and Salvation, one eyebrow raised in a question I didn’t want to answer.

Heat crept up my neck. I shook my head slightly, a silent plea for her to drop it.

Instead, she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you don’t make a move, nothing will ever change.”

My mouth fell open. I snapped it shut, mortified. “I don’t --” I started, but the words died in my throat as Salvation glanced over, his expression curious.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I managed, my voice unnaturally high. “Just… math. Complicated.”

He nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on my flushed face before turning back to his cooking.

Clover smirked. I kicked her gently under the table but couldn’t quite summon any real annoyance.

Instead, a bubble of nervous laughter threatened to escape me.

This girl, with her too-wise eyes and matter-of-fact statements, had somehow become important to me in the years since I’d arrived.

“It’s true,” she mouthed silently, nodding toward Salvation’s back.

I ducked my head, letting my hair fall forward to hide my burning cheeks. Maybe it was true. Maybe I did need to make a move. But the thought alone was terrifying -- more frightening, somehow, than the blade I’d once held to my wrist.

Because this time, I had something to lose.

Clover closed her textbook with a decisive snap, shooting me one last knowing look before gathering her papers. “I should put these away. And finish that reading for English. I’ll come fix my plate when I’m finished, so don’t wait for me.”

I recognized the excuse for what it was -- a deliberate exit, leaving Salvation and me alone. My heart jumped into my throat. I wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. Not with her words still humming in my ears.

“Don’t forget we need to leave early tomorrow,” Salvation reminded her, not looking up from the pot he was stirring. “Doctor’s appointment before school.”

Clover rolled her eyes. “Like I could forget. You’ve reminded me three times today.”

“Make it four,” he replied, a smile in his voice.

She huffed dramatically but grinned as she tucked her books under her arm. “Night, Dad.” She paused at the doorway, looking back at me. “Night, Yulia.”

“Goodnight,” I managed. Her footsteps faded down the hallway, each one taking my courage with it. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker.

I sat frozen at the table, hyperaware of every sound -- the bubbling of the pot and even Salvation’s steady breathing.

He moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

Or perhaps just accustomed to it. After all, this was our routine most nights.

He cooked. I watched. We ate. We existed in the same space without really occupying it together.

My fingers picked at a loose thread on my sleeve.

We’d been married for about eleven years now -- on paper only, as he’d promised that first night.

A marriage of protection, nothing more. He’d given me safety, stability.

A home. But in moments like this, with just the two of us, I couldn’t help but wonder if there could be more.

Salvation opened the oven, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. The muscles in his back flexed as he bent to check whatever was roasting inside. My mouth went dry.

“Looks good,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

I swallowed hard. Yeah, you do . “What are you making?”

He glanced over his shoulder, surprise flickering across his face at the sound of my voice. “Beef stew. And bread.” He gestured to the oven. “Nothing fancy.”

But it was fancy to me. I’d been stuck with institutional food at various boarding schools for about a decade, then it had been months of barely eating at all as I adjusted to the path my life had taken.

Not to mention, my family had hired cooks.

My mother wouldn’t have been caught dead in the kitchen except to bark orders at people.

She might have been sweet to her daughters, but she tended to take out her frustration on the servants.

These home-cooked meals had been a luxury.

You’d think after all this time I’d be used to it, but some part of me still worried it would all be yanked out of my hands at a moment’s notice.

Salvation returned to the stove, lifting the lid from the pot to stir the contents. The rhythmic motion of his arm, the concentration on his face as he tasted from the wooden spoon -- these small details fascinated me. Made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Before I could second-guess myself, I pushed away from the table and approached the counter. I picked up a dish towel, folding and unfolding it between my fingers. “Can I help with anything?” I asked, my voice softer than I’d intended.

Salvation glanced up, his calm gaze meeting mine briefly before returning to the cutting board. “Just rest. I’ve got this,” he replied.