AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“More trash, I know.” I step forward to try to grab it from him, a little annoyed. “But I didn’t ask you to barge in here—”
“No,” he says, cutting me off. “I mean, is this all you’ve been eating?”
I shrug and wrap my arms around myself, feeling self-conscious. “It’s not like I had the energy to cook. I’m sick.”
“This kind of shit isn’t good for someone with a cold,” he says. He drops the container into the garbage and then strides into the kitchen.
I follow him in, watching with a sort of stunned curiosity as he starts opening cabinets and the fridge, pulling things out and muttering under his breath.
“What are you doing now?” I ask, feeling like a broken record at this point.
“You’re not giving your body what it needs to get better.”
“So you’re… going to cook for me?”
He shoots me a look that either means ‘obviously’ or is his way of telling me to shut up. But it’s so hard to get a read on him that I have no idea what he’s trying to convey.
“I bet you eat the same thing every day,” I mutter. “You seem like the type.”
Again, his shoulders go a bit stiff, but he doesn’t reply.
Just as methodically as he’s done everything else, he starts working on the food. He finds a can of chicken broth in the cabinet and pours it into a pot, setting it to simmer. Then he hunts down knives and a cutting board, scratched up and discolored from use. He starts cutting up the few carrots that were in my fridge, the ones not too wilted to use.
I watch as he strips the meat from a leftover rotisserie chicken I bought because it was on sale at the grocery store and adds that to the pot.
Soon enough, the kitchen starts to fill with the scent of savory, warm soup.
He seems to be totally absorbed in his task, and I take a seat at the rickety table that’s set against one wall, unable to resist this opportunity to study him without him looking back at me. The first night I met the Voronin brothers, I was struck by the fact that Victor and Malice looked so similar, but now I can see more of the ways in which their features differ from one another. They both have sharp jawlines and thick, dark eyelashes, but Malice’s face is a bit wider, his cheekbones and nose a bit more broad, as if the lines of his face were drawn with a heavier pen than Victor’s. Their hair is almost the exact same color, and they both keep it fairly short, but not a single strand on Victor’s head is out of place, whereas Malice’s hair always looks like he’s had his fingers in it, mussing things up.
There’s something enigmatic about Victor, as if he only allows a small fraction of the things he’s thinking or feeling to show on his face, keeping the rest hidden from view.
Once the soup is done, he turns back to me, and I tear my gaze away from him and pretend I’ve been studying the table the entire time. He carefully ladles the broth, veggies, and chicken into a bowl and brings it to the table, setting it down in front of me.
“Eat.”
I half expect him to leave now that he’s accomplished this odd task he gave himself, but instead, he sits down across from me, staring at me with an expectant look until I pick up the spoon and start eating.
My stomach growls, so any idea of rebelling against doing what he says goes out the window. Besides, the soup is hot and tastes surprisingly good.
His gaze never leaves me as I slowly sip at the broth, studying me as intently as I studied him while he cooked. It’s disconcerting to be the focus of all of someone’s attention, so I find myself searching for something to say just to fill the loaded silence.
“I can’t believe this came out of my kitchen,” I comment, taking another bite of the savory chicken soup. “I’ve never cooked anything this good. I wouldn’t have even thought I had the ingredients to pull it off.”
He shrugs. “It’s not that hard. Once you know the principles of cooking, you can adapt them to just about any ingredients.”
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“At home. I taught myself when I was younger. Malice and Ransom both hate to cook, so if I want them to eat something besides takeout all the time, I have to make it from scratch.”
“Are you the oldest?” I ask, curious in spite of myself. “Is that why you look out for them?”
He purses his lips. “In a way, I guess. Malice and I are twins. Ransom is the youngest.”
“Twins?” I murmur, the spoon hovering halfway to my mouth.
I was just thinking to myself how similar Malice and Victor look, but I had no idea they were twins. It’s surprising, in a way. They’re both dark-haired and intense, where Ransom has lighter hair and seems more charming and easy going. But the physical resemblance between them is where the similarities between Malice and Victor end.
“Yes.” Victor nods. “You couldn’t tell?”
