Nico

"And this is my kitchen," Alaric muttered through a tired yawn as he led me farther into the penthouse.

The kitchen looked exactly the way I imagined Alaric De Villier’s kitchen would look.

Elegant. Expensive. Painfully organized.

Dark marble countertops stretched beneath warm golden lighting while sleek black cabinets lined the walls with almost obsessive neatness.

The massive kitchen island at the center looked untouched, like nobody had properly cooked there in weeks. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Monaco’s skyline, allowing pale afternoon sunlight to spill softly across the polished surfaces while the silver appliances gleamed beneath the light.

The entire room looked beautiful in a cold, intimidating sort of way.

It barely looked lived in at all.

Alaric pointed lazily toward one of the drawers beside the counter.

"The utensils are there," he explained sleepily before motioning toward another cabinet. "The plates are over there, and the spices should be somewhere on the left side."

I barely listened to anything he was saying.

Instead, I found myself staring at him quietly.

His blond hair was messy from sleep, strands falling carelessly into his eyes while the oversized black shirt hanging loosely against his frame exposed part of his collarbone every time he moved. He looked exhausted, irritated, and half-awake, but somehow that only made him more distracting.

Honestly, his sleepy face was far more interesting than whatever instructions he was trying to give me.

A faint smile almost pulled at my mouth before I looked away.

I was just glad to see him again.

Glad to stand inside his home while he wandered around beside me looking sleepy and comfortable like this was normal.

And strangely enough, that realization tightened something inside my chest.

Not painfully.

The feeling was warm and pleasant.

For a brief moment, I simply watched him while that strange warmth settled deeper inside me, and I realized this had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to fuck him anymore.

This was different.

It felt quieter than lust but somehow far more dangerous. Like seeing someone after missing them longer than you wanted to admit. Like the simple act of standing beside them suddenly becoming enough to make your chest feel too tight.

I hated it immediately.

There was no way in hell I was allowing myself to fall into something like that with Alaric De Villier.

Or with anyone.

Feelings complicated everything, and my life was already messy enough without adding emotional attachment into it.

So I shoved the thought aside before it could settle any deeper.

Once Alaric finished showing me around the kitchen, he stretched his arms lazily above his head before turning toward the entrance.

"Aren’t you going to ask what I’m about to make for you?" I asked while unpacking the groceries onto the counter.

He barely looked back at me.

"I do not care," he replied with another yawn. "Just do not burn down my kitchen. I am going back to sleep, so do whatever you want."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"You are seriously going back to sleep while I cook for you?"

"Yes."

"That is unbelievably rude."

Alaric shrugged carelessly before starting to walk away.

"You invited yourself into my penthouse. I never asked you to cook for me."

Then he disappeared down the hallway before I could answer him properly.

I chuckled quietly to myself while opening one of Alaric’s cabinets in search of an apron.

Surprisingly, he actually owned one, although I should not have been shocked considering how obsessively organized everything inside this penthouse looked.

Of course the apron was black.

Everything inside this place looked expensive, polished, and painfully perfect, almost like nobody truly lived here long enough to make a mess of it.

I slipped the apron over my clothes before walking toward the sink to wash my hands properly.

Warm water ran across my skin while soft afternoon sunlight spilled through the massive windows behind me, reflecting against the marble countertops and sleek silver appliances.

The kitchen was silent except for the sound of running water and the distant noise of Monaco somewhere far below the penthouse.

For a brief moment, the entire room felt strangely peaceful.

Then I shook the thought away and focused on unpacking the groceries across the kitchen island instead.

Since Alaric clearly had not gone grocery shopping in weeks, I bought almost everything myself on the way here. Fresh herbs, garlic, butter, cream, parmesan cheese, cherry tomatoes, lemons, mushrooms, spinach, potatoes, and fresh pasta from a small Italian store near the harbor that one of my engineers once recommended to me after a race weekend.

I decided to make creamy parmesan pasta with garlic butter steak, roasted potatoes, and sautéed vegetables.

Sophia had told me that it was one of his favorite meal.

I started with the potatoes first because they would take the longest.

After rinsing them carefully beneath cold water, I chopped them into smaller pieces before tossing them into a bowl with olive oil, garlic, rosemary, paprika, black pepper, and sea salt. The scent of fresh rosemary immediately rose into the air while I mixed everything together thoroughly with my hands before spreading the potatoes evenly across a tray.

Once they slid into the oven, warmth slowly began filling the kitchen.

Next came the steak.

I seasoned both cuts generously with salt, cracked black pepper, garlic powder, and melted butter before leaving them aside to rest while I prepared everything else properly. I knew exactly how I wanted them cooked already.

Perfect medium rare.

Anything more than that deserved prison time.

By then, almost twenty minutes had already passed.

I moved around the kitchen more comfortably afterward, boiling water for the pasta while chopping garlic, onions, spinach, mushrooms, and cherry tomatoes for the vegetables. Soft music from my phone played quietly in the background while the smell of garlic slowly began taking over the penthouse.

Honestly, cooking inside Alaric’s kitchen felt strangely domestic.

Dangerously domestic.

I ignored the thought immediately.

Once the pasta water began boiling properly, I added the fresh pasta carefully before turning my attention toward the sauce. Butter melted smoothly inside the pan before I added the garlic and onions, stirring them slowly while the rich scent filled the kitchen almost instantly.

Then came the cream.

Fresh parmesan cheese.

Black pepper.

A little pasta water to loosen the sauce perfectly.

Steam curled upward beneath the warm kitchen lights while the sauce thickened into something smooth and rich. I tasted it once before nodding quietly to myself.

Good.

Very good, actually.

The steak came last because I wanted it hot by the time Alaric finally dragged himself back out of bed.

I heated another pan until it was almost smoking before placing the steaks down carefully. The sharp sizzling sound echoed immediately through the quiet kitchen while butter melted rapidly around the meat.

I tilted the pan slightly before spooning the melted butter repeatedly over the steaks, watching the surface turn beautifully golden brown beneath the heat. The smell alone was enough to make me hungry again.

After flipping them one final time, I allowed the meat to rest properly before slicing carefully into one just enough to check the center.

Perfect.

Exactly the way I wanted it.

By the time I finished plating the food neatly onto the dishes, the kitchen no longer looked cold and untouched like it had earlier.

Warmth filled the space now, softening the sharp edges of the marble and polished steel while the rich scent of garlic, butter, rosemary, and cream lingered heavily in the air.

And somehow, standing there inside Alaric’s penthouse while steam rose softly from the food I made for him, I caught myself wondering when exactly this stopped feeling like a stupid bet and started becoming something far more dangerous.