Page 71 of Trapped By the Blood Ruby

He wouldn’t admit to Vittorio that he’d spent at least an hour combing through Beatrice Pemberton recipes. Wouldn’t admit that he’d put a great deal of thought into what Lily might like. What might please her.

Surely she was growing bored of cinnamon rolls. He was. He’d rather try something else.

Vittorio appeared genuinely curious. “Blueberry muffins, sire?”

He shrugged. “You think she’d enjoy them?”

“From Beatrice Pemberton? I’m certain of it. Let me gather the ingredients.”

“I’ll make them. Just look over my shoulder to ensure I do it correctly.”

“Of course.”

Strangely enough, he found that he enjoyed the monotony of baking. It was easy to see why Vittorio chose to spend hours in the kitchen. There was something rejuvenating about it.

The following evening, he decided on another Pemberton recipe. A tray bake, which was a strange mix of cookies and brownies that intrigued him. The evening after that, cupcakes. He made those three nights in a row to try different flavors. First chocolate, then carrot, then butter yellow.

Soon more than a week had passed, but each night was more trying than the last. He found himself yearning to watch her reaction to his efforts, to watch her eat what he’d made. More than that, he wanted to sit with her, to keep her company, to know her better. He found himself lingering longer in her presence, even if it was to merely ask about her day or how she was feeling.

She was warming up to him, and that left his chest full to bursting. He didn’t care that the emotion was a sign of weakness. Didn’t care that it was risky—what he was doing, what he was allowing himself to feel. For once, he was too caught up in winning her over.

The night before Bastian was set to arrive, he made a split second decision. He’d chosen tonight’s recipe with care, pushing himself outside of his comfort zone. It was a wonder he hadn’t ruined it. When he gathered everything together, the plate on the tray held enough for two.

He knocked on her door, annoyed by his own fidgeting.

“Come in,” Lily called. She stood near the sofa as if she’d been waiting. For him. He didn’t want to think too deeply on how much he liked the idea.

He covertly assessed her, taking in her body language and vitals. Her posture was rigid, fingers twisting together in front of her. Her heart beat faster at the sight of him. There was still panic in her scent, but not nearly as strong as usual.

“Good evening, Miss Shaw. I hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d try something different tonight. Apple fritters.”

Her lips parted at that.

He lowered the tray to display the stack of pastries and hot chocolate. Her eyes sparkled, darting over everything. “Oh…” she breathed. “That’s…”

“I haven’t tried them yet, but they smell divine. I assume they are edible.”

“You haven’t tried them?” She sounded more confident than usual, as if the shock of his statement had emboldened her.

“I have not.” He sounded more vulnerable than intended.

“Would you like…?” She trailed off, so he waited. When she didn’t continue, he pushed down his disappointment—because it was fucking irritating that he should get so worked up over apple fritters—and calmly strolled across the room. He set the tray in its usual spot, taking his time. Lily’s throat cleared. “Would you like to stay and…and try one?”

He exhaled before realizing there had been breath in his lungs. “I would love to—if that’s acceptable?”

She hesitated. “It’s… It’s all right.”

Everything he did was intentional. The smile he offered to put her at ease, the way he seated himself slowly, so as not to startle her, the position of the tray closer to her side of the table, giving her the option to sit on the opposite end of the sofa. All the while, he listened to her heartbeat, to each shallow breath, using it as a metric. He was careful, so careful.

He told himself to ignore the shrinking feeling in his chest as she pressed her side against the sofa’s arm. To be as far from him as possible. Because this was progress—huge progress.

“May I?” he asked, reaching for a fritter. She looked too nervous to eat, so he would break the ice. Warm apple filling and dough melted on his tongue. He hummed involuntarily. “That’s…better than I expected. Perhaps Vittorio secretly swapped mine for something hiding in the pantry.”

A breathy sound burst from her chest. It wasn’t quite a laugh. He didn’t care. Because it was the best sound he’d ever heard.

“Are you that insecure over your baking abilities?”

“Should I be?” He offered up the challenge.