Page 99 of Ruined

I melted into him, my other hand sliding up his chest. The warmth of his skin burned through his T-shirt. My heart pounded as his teeth grazed my bottom lip.

A burning smell snapped me out of it.

Dominic pulled away, facing the stove. He yanked the pan off the heat. Smoke curled up from the blackened bacon.

“Nice work, Chef,” I muttered. “Not much of a multitasker, huh?”

“Keep talking, and you’ll make your own damn breakfast.”

“You were doing fine until I got involved. Can’t handle the heat?”

The fire alarm shrieked. The ear-piercing wail filled the kitchen, and I flinched. Dominic dragged a chair over, climbing up to yank the battery out of the smoke detector. The screeching stopped. He hopped down, his hair slightly mussed.

Dominic grabbed a plate, scraping the charred bacon onto it. “If you’re going to stand there and tease me, next breakfast is on you.”

“I can only cook Russian food.”

He shrugged. “Vodka and despair?”

“Borscht, pelmeni, beef stroganoff.”

Dominic raised an eyebrow. “Pelmeni?”

“Dumplings,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. “Little pockets of meat and spices. Best when they’re hot, with a dollop of sour cream.”

I could almost see the long dining table at the Pakhan’s house, crowded with steaming plates. The warmth of the kitchen, the laughter and the clinking of shot glasses. It wasn’t always bad. There had been good times. The nights whenbabuliawould make her special blinis, and we’d sit around eating until we were stuffed.

Delilah used to tease me about how many I could eat. We’d sneak out during those big parties and get shit-faced on vodka. I held on to those moments, even now.

“I used to eat them with Delilah. Santino’s wife. She’d always put too much sour cream and try to convince me it was the best way to eat them.”

She’d invited me to dinner at her and Santino’s house, but the thought of sitting at her table made my stomach knot. I couldn’t be around Delilah. She brought it all back—bantering in Russian, laughing about old jokes, like we were still in that cage together.

I still hadn’t responded to her text from a few days ago.

Delilah didn’t deserve that. She was one of the few people who made my captivity bearable. I pictured her pouring me a drink, asking how I was holding up. I’d lie, because what else would I say? Every time I looked at her, I remembered how I didn’t protect her in Providence.

“So, when are you making them for me?”

I blinked. “Make what?”

“The dumplings. Pelmeni,” he said, his awful pronunciation endearing. “You gave me a whole sales pitch about how good they are. Now I want to try them.”

I snorted. “I’m not making you dumplings.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d complain about the sour cream.”

His smirk deepened. “Maybe I like sour cream.”

“No, you like pretending you’re too good for it,” I shot back, folding my arms over my chest. “You’d take one bite and ask for steak instead.”

“You really think I’m that predictable?”

“I know you are.”

Dominic smiled. “I think you’re scared I’ll like them too much and start showing up at your door demanding Russian food.”