Page 67 of Trapped By the Blood Ruby

Her throat bobbed. “You…you really made this?”

“I made it for you,” he murmured. “If you aren’t hungry, I can take it back to the⁠—“

“No! I… I mean…” Her cheeks flushed.

“Shall I place it inside? Or I can leave it on the floor here.” He rushed to get the words out, to save her from whatever emotion she internally grappled with.

“You can…” She trailed off and stepped back to make room for him. He didn’t miss the way her hand gripped the door, her knuckles white as she held it open for him. He pretended not to notice. Pretended he didn’t smell the rise in her fear as he swept into her space. He’d been in here just earlier to leave sheet music for her, noting some of the changes she’d made.

He placed the tray on the coffee table before the empty fireplace, then calmly strode from the room, pausing in the doorway. “Enjoy, Miss Shaw. Good night.”

She watched him go, her body frozen, each breath shallow. Her brows still drawn, as if she couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening.

He walked down the hall until her door clicked shut. Then he backtracked. He walked into his room, over to the door that joined their rooms together, and listened. Her heart began to calm as she moved around her room. He listened to her sigh, then listened to the sound of her sitting down on the sofa. There was a long silence and then⁠—

A breathy moan laced with delight.

A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it. The simple pleasure of her enjoyment felt foreign—and dangerously addictive.

There were certainly no complaints, so he hadn’t botched the recipe.

More sounds followed, the plate being set on the tray, followed by the mug. Breathy sighs that made him swallow all too often. A few hums of appreciation.

She was eating and drinking food he’d prepared. The irritation he’d felt while hovering over the stove, waiting for chocolate to melt, for bread to rise… It no longer bothered him. Especially when he thought about that food caressing her tongue, sliding down her throat⁠—

He clenched his jaw and stepped away from the door. This was ridiculous. Here he was, obsessing over pastries like some lovesick fool. This was strategy, nothing more. Win her trust, ease her fear. All in hopes that she might heal from what he’d done to her.

It was with that thought he trudged downstairs and saw to the other matters requiring his attention. He didn’t sleep that night, didn’t get close to Lily’s room again. He didn’t want to be reminded of her nightmares.

The following day, Vittorio found him in his office. “Did you need something?”

He didn’t look up from his laptop.

“Miss Shaw is asking after your cinnamon rolls.”

He couldn’t help the surprising burst of laughter that fell from his chest. At the way the statement had come out, at the fact that Lily wanted more of what he’d made. “Well? I don’t see why you should come bother me about it.”

“I had to inform her there weren’t any more.”

His head snapped up, emails forgotten⁠—

“It seems all of your family members suddenly developed a taste for cinnamon rolls over the course of the morning. Naturally, they were devoured. I imagine Zola probably had two⁠—“

“You bastard,” he hissed. He knew exactly what was happening here.

“I guess you’ll have to make a fresh batch tonight, if you wish to bring her another?” Vittorio’s brows rose suggestively. “I assume you’re going to make this a nightly ritual?”

He opened his mouth only to snap it closed. Vittorio’s words sank in. “I thought you weren’t going to help me.”

“I’m not.” He lifted a shoulder.

“Right. I’ll see you in the kitchen at eight, Vittorio.”

That night, he arrived promptly as promised. This time he added crushed pecans to the rolls and a bit of peppermint to the hot chocolate. The pecans were Vittorio’s idea, the peppermint was all his. When he knocked on Lily’s door at ten thirty, she hesitantly shuffled to the door. He didn’t miss the signs of her panic—the rapid heartbeat, the smell clouding her scent, the flush of her skin when she peeked out at him.

She licked her lips, eyes darting down to the tray in his hands, to the giant cinnamon roll proudly displayed beside the mug of hot chocolate, whipped cream piled high. “More?” she breathed.

“I thought I’d try something different this time,” he said, conversationally. “Pecans. You’re not allergic, are you? I probably should have asked.”