Page 79 of The Ecstasy of Sin

I lift my eyes to his.

“That was a one time thing. You’re safe here.”

I nod, and he holds my gaze for another moment, then turns back to the fridge.

I twist the cap from the pill container and shake one large tablet out onto the palm of my hand, then grab the water and swallow it down. I finish the entire glass, since I’m so thirsty after last night’s… adventure.

When I glance back up, Dominic is pulling a stainless steel dog bowl from the fridge. He sets it on the counter and pops off the lid. He grabs a fork and begins breaking up what looks like a casserole. I lean over, peering into the bowl, trying to figure out what it is.

It looks like mostly shredded chicken and some kind of ground red meat, mixed with green and orange vegetables, and what looks like blueberries and chunks of apple.

I’m mesmerized as he opens a drawer and adds two powdered supplements to the bowl, then pours in some hot water and stirs it all together.

Hunter’s tail thumps against my leg, the fluffy length sweeping side to side in anticipation.

Dominic picks up the bowl and walks over to a mat next to the sliding door. He sets it down, calling Hunter over.

Hunter sits and waits patiently at the mat. When Dominic gives him the okay, he stands up and begins eating his home-cooked meal.

“You cook for your dog?” I ask, unable to keep the emotion out of my voice. It’s so unexpected. For a murderous villain, he sure has a loving heart.

He offers me a quick smile, patting Hunter’s head before he returns to the counter to sanitize the surface then wash his hands. When he's done, he starts preparing whatever he’s making for us. “Of course. He deserves the best.”

I’ve always had an easier time trusting animal lovers. Only the worst kind of people harm the innocent and the vulnerable. “I find it really sweet that you’re so good to him.”

“I always loved animals growing up,” he explains as he works, focused on the stove. “They’re not capable of the horrible shit people are. They’re loyal. They don’t lie. The worst they’ll do is kill you and eat you.”

I understand what he means. That’s one of the reasons I love animals too. “Did you have any pets growing up?” I love that he’s so willingly sharing things about himself with me.

“My mom was a drug addict,” he says flatly. “She couldn’t take care of me, let alone a pet. After she died, when I got put in the foster home, they had a cat. I used to feed her. She’d usually sleep in our room.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say quietly, frowning.

“I’m not. It is what it is.”

He doesn’t sound all that sad when he speaks of his past. He’s dipping bread into something and tossing it in the hot pan, his tone casual.

I want to ask more, but I shift the conversation to a lighter topic. “What happened when you guys turned eighteen? You obviously didn’t go your separate ways.”

He nods, flipping what I now recognize is French toast into the air to cook the other side. “We had to wait a few years for Torin, but once he was out, we lived on the street for a while. We slept wherever we could, and took whatever jobs we could get. Eventually we scraped enough together to get our own apartment.”

I listen as he opens up to me about his past, focused on him as he cooks and fills a single plate with a stack of French toast.

The scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills the kitchen, and my empty stomach rumbles as it reminds me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday evening.

I glance at the clock on the microwave; it’s now 2PM.

“We worked hard to get where we are. We took care of each other.” He slides the rest of the perfectly golden toast onto the stack.

He opens the fridge, grabs a protein shake, and places everything on the counter in front of me.

I watch, curious, as he rounds the breakfast bar and takes the stool beside mine. Then, without warning, he reaches over and lifts me like I weigh nothing, settling me onto his lap.

I gasp, and then instantly blush. He doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest, ignoring the confused and shy expression on my face.

He pulls the steamy plate of food over, drizzling maple syrup on top of the stacked slices, and then grabs the single fork and knife.

He cuts into the fried bread, and once he has the perfect bite-sized piece of syrupy toast on the fork, he lifts it up to my lips. “Open.”