Page 26 of Twisted Addiction

“Why are you watching me while I sleep?” I snapped, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

It came out harsher than I meant, but I needed it that way—needed the edge to mask the unease curling in my stomach. “Planning how to kill me?”

His eyes didn’t flicker, not even once.

“No.” The word landed like a gunshot—flat, unshaken. “I don’t plan things like that, Penelope. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t wake up to ask the question.”

My chin lifted, defiance warring with the tremor in my chest.

“Then do it,” I dared, the words tasting like iron on my tongue.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his stare narrowing into something colder than steel.

A faint, humorless smirk touched his lips. “You don’t give me orders,” he murmured, voice edged like a knife. “And let this be the last time you accuse me of touching you in your sleep.”

His words were measured, but there was an edge to them, as if my earlier accusation still festered, a wound he was battling to disprove.

I froze, the words sinking in like ice in my veins.

My chest tightened, heartbeat hammering against my ribs. He had never—would never—violate me, and yet the memory of my nightmare lingered, clawing at the edges of my mind.

My stomach growled loudly, a reminder of the hunger I’d ignored in the chaos of the day.

I stood, brushing past him without a glance. “I need to eat.”

He didn’t respond, but I felt his gaze trailing me like a physical weight as I left the room, my bare feet silent on the polished hardwood floors.

The kitchen was a haven of stainless steel and gleaming marble, but my mood soured the moment I saw Giovanni at the counter, chopping vegetables with a precision that bordered on obsessive.

The faint aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air, but his presence was an unwelcome intrusion.

I moved to the opposite side of the island, grabbing a bag of coffee beans and a loaf of crusty sourdough bread to make myself a quick meal—a strong espresso and a grilled cheese sandwich with a smear of spicy mustard for a kick.

Without looking at me, Giovanni spoke, his voice casual but probing. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m making coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich,” I said curtly, measuring out the beans. “I don’t need your help.”

He continued stirring a pot of creamy mushroom risotto, the steam rising in soft curls. “I’m preparing this for the boss—risotto, no spice, just how he likes it. Maybe you two could share?”

“No, thank you,” I snapped, my hands moving faster as I buttered the bread. “And what, he doesn’t eat spice?”

“Nope,” Giovanni replied, still focused on his task. “He’s allergic to it.”

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. “What happens when he does?”

“Let’s just say it’s not pretty,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone as he stirred the risotto with a wooden spoon, the grains glistening under the kitchen lights. “Hives, swelling, chaos. He avoids it like the plague.”

I snorted, flipping my sandwich onto the sizzling pan.

“Well, I’m not eating that bland vegetarian slop with him. I like spice.”

“I could add some chili flakes to yours,” he offered, still engrossed in his cooking, the risotto now perfectly creamy as he sprinkled in a pinch of parmesan.

“Which part of ‘I’m not eating with him’ don’t you understand?” I retorted, my voice sharp as I pressed the sandwich down with a spatula, the cheese oozing satisfyingly.

Giovanni smirked, unfazed, wiping his hands on a towel as he finished his prep.

He turned to me at last, his scarred face lit with a knowing glint.