Silva

Chapter Twenty-Nine

• Irisa •

—

Silva is generous.

I made a passing comment about how I never got to make a recipe that is known to be comfort food. That recipe has been floating in my head since my landlord was found dead, and everything else prevented me from making it.

Namely, Silva's immensely barbaric presence.

Everything I do seemed to revolve around him no matter how small the ties are. I did wonder if being knocked down the hill messed up my head, then I realize Silva was just a man doing everything he legally can to possess me.

He's reasonable most of the time, caring in his own way, and very generous with me.

I don't need premium gadgets and copper kitchenware—for fuck's sake, I didn't even know copper was that expensive compared to stainless steel.

Ivor had dropped off disturbingly fresh ingredients that can't be found during weather like now in Norway. I've seen Ivor a handful of times. He's Silva's shadow and devoted shield.

Cooking is easier said than done. The mixer is light and simple, but the whisk is intense. So strong that the batter sails through the air, taking my heart into my throat and pieces of my soul along the journey to Silva.

It's comically slow when the batter flies through the air, but the panic in my head is a hysterical carousel.

Is this what 'life flashing before my eyes' mean?

I watch unabashedly as the sticky batter splashes on his naked chest, creeping down his grooved muscles and between his hard abs as trails of creamy batter seep inside the low-hanging waistband.

I'm afraid to look him in the eyes. They haunt and tempt me to get on my knees.

So, who knows what'll happen if I look at him and see the viscid batter touching the muscles that I want to run my tongue over.

I'm not getting salmonella.

"Irisa," he purrs with suppressed ire.

I'm in trouble. I hastily throw the mixer into the bowl and leave it on the kitchen island. As the batter spills on the monochrome marble, I can physically feel his glare on my forehead.

An unwise decision, but it's too late.

I scrape my palms on my clothes, rubbing the clamminess away as I gather my courage.

"Come," he orders while extending his hand.

I wish my impulsivity didn't surpass commonsense. "No—"

I put my weight on the other foot and contemplate the risks in one breath. I'm accustomed to Silva and the slightest changes in his demeanor, so it's easy to detect the amalgamation of sweltering tyranny in the air.

"No?" he tests amusingly.

Stare any harder, and he'll set me on fire. My scalp itches, but I don't scratch it. My hands are a bit useless at the moment, being under his scrutiny and all.

"Don't be mad," I plead hastily.

"I'm not," he intones. "You're cleaning this mess."

A fire wakens a deep hunger in my churning stomach. I swallow again and square my shoulders to face Silva heads on about an accident. I'm acting like I committed a big crime when it's just raw batter.

My breath dives back into my lungs as I look up. He's in front of me with dirtied abs and unpleased gray eyes. The batter covers his scent, but his bare torso still pushes my body with a smoldering shiver.