Page 66 of Trapped By the Blood Ruby

A small, incredulous laugh burst from Vittorio’s chest. “Has logic failed me, because it sounds like you’re asking me to teach you to bake.”

“Vittorio.” The word came out a growl.

Vittorio’s face lit up with wicked delight. “I can walk you through it. But it will take several hours.”

“Several—?!”

“And I’m not lifting a single finger. Not even a pinky.”

Glaring was beneath him, and yet, he shot Vittorio his best glare.

The man only huffed and said, “I’m assuming you want this to be a surprise?”

“Obviously.”

“All right, then give her some time to finish dinner. She always brings her tray down afterward. Come to the kitchen around eight.”

“Fine. I’ll bring my tray when I do. Thank you for dinner, Vittorio.”

An hour and a half later, he found himself in the kitchen. True to his word, Vittorio walked him through the process of first mixing the dough and then kneading it; he seemed to take immense satisfaction in every one of Laurent’s struggles. “Does it really take an entire hour to rise? Can’t we⁠—“

“That is the key to good bread, sire. In the mean time, we can make the cinnamon mixture.”

They set it aside and began on the filling. “I don’t usually do anything beyond the norm,” Vittorio explained. “How about a touch of orange, to make it special? Miss Shaw is sure to love that.”

“Orange would pair well with hot chocolate,” he mused, thoughtful.

“Hot chocolate, too? Ambitious.”

“Only after you show me how to make it,” he admitted.

This entire experience was making something all too clear. He’d grown too reliant on Vittorio. He didn’t need to eat to live. It was an indulgence, but only just. Certainly not as pleasing as wine and absolutely nowhere near as delectable as blood.

Vittorio walked him through every step without lifting a finger: rolling out the soft dough, spreading the cinnamon orange mixture, spiraling it, then cutting it with string to form each roll. He nearly groaned when Vittorio informed him they needed yet another hour to rise.

“We can make the frosting and prep the hot chocolate while we wait,” Vittorio advised.

It was nearly ten thirty when he knocked on Lily’s door—later than he’d anticipated. “Come in,” she called, far too blasé to realize who it was. Probably assuming it was Zola.

He hesitated, but did not open the door. He knew how she would react if he did. “It’s Laurent,” he warned. A long silence followed. In that silence he heard her heart rate through the door. It sped up, closely followed by the rising scent of her panic.

“I only wanted to drop something off for you,” he added, keeping his voice soft. “I can leave it here on the floor, if you wish.”

He’d hoped to see her reaction over the rolls, but…

The sound of her steps signaled her approach. His hands clenched the tray as the door opened partway. Lily’s gaze dropped to it, her heartbeat striking his ears in a rapid staccato. “Did… Did Vittorio send you?”

“No. I thought you might like a snack before bed.” He didn’t miss the way her eyes lingered on the cinnamon roll, still warm from the oven. The frosting melted down its sides. “I added a bit of orange to the cinnamon filling.”

“You?” Her brows pulled together.

“I also thought you might like some hot chocolate to accompany. I used dark chocolate instead of milk chocolate. Should be richer—I think.”

“You… You made this?”

He hummed. “I assure you, Vittorio hovered over my shoulder every step of the way, ensuring I did things just right. Did you know it takes two hours for bread to rise? Once after it’s been kneaded, and again after forming each roll? It took ages before I could finally put them in the oven.” He kept his voice calm and was rewarded when her heart slowed, just a touch. Her scent softened marginally.

“I can set it inside, if you wish?”