Page 93 of Chain Me
“Smells incredible in here.”
He jumps at my voice, nearly dropping the wooden spoon he's using to stir something that looks and smells like bolognaise.
“Jesus, Katarina. You're quiet.”
“Says the man who could probably sneak up on a cat.” I move closer, noting the way his jaw ticks with tension. “What's wrong? You seem...”
“Seem what?”
“Off. Nervous.” I study his profile, confused by the rigid set of his shoulders.
He doesn't answer, just continues stirring. On the counter beside him, I notice a bottle of expensive wine breathing, sitting next to two crystal glasses waiting to be filled.
The dining room reveals even more surprises. Erik has actually set the table—cloth napkins, real silverware, candles flickering in tall holders that cast dancing shadows across the walls. Classical music plays softly from hidden speakers.
“Wow.” I stop in the doorway. “This is...”
“What?” His voice carries a sharp edge.
“Romantic.” A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “Erik Ivanov, did you just create the most romantic dinner I've ever seen?”
His face darkens. “It's just food.”
“Just food?” I gesture at the candles, the wine, the flowers he's somehow procured and arranged in a crystal vase. “This looks like something out of a magazine. What's gotten into you?”
He sets down the serving spoon with more force than necessary. “Nothing's gotten into me.”
But his hands shake as he pours the wine, and there's something almost desperate in the way he avoids my gaze. This man, who has faced down my father's armed guards without breaking a sweat, appears to be nervous about having dinner with me.
“Erik.” I touch his arm. “Talk to me. What's really going on?”
He freezes under my touch, his whole body going rigid like he's bracing for impact.
“Nothing.” The word comes out flat, final.
But everything about his movements screams otherwise. He carries the spaghetti and bolognaise to the table. The serving spoon doesn't clink against the bowl. His breathing is too even, too regulated.
“Katarina.” He pulls out my chair, and I catch the slight tremor in his voice. “Sit.”
I don't move. “Erik?—”
“Please.” The word cracks something in his composure. “Just... sit.”
The atmosphere presses down between us, heavy and electric. Every candle flame seems to flicker in time with his pulse at his throat. The classical music that should evoke a romantic feeling now sounds ominous, building toward something I can't identify.
I sink into the chair he's holding, and his hands brush my shoulders as he pushes it forward. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long, his fingers curling slightly into the fabric of my shirt before he jerks away.
He serves the food in absolute silence. The wine catches the candlelight as he tops off my glass, and I notice his knuckles are white where he grips the bottle.
“This looks amazing,” I try, desperate to break whatever tension has settled over us.
He nods once and takes his own seat across from me with his back to the wall—always watching the exits, even here in his own compound.
The food is incredible. Rich, creamy, with just the right bite of wine and herbs. But Erik barely touches his plate. He watches me eat with an intensity that makes my skin prickle like he's memorizing every movement of my fork to my mouth.
“You're not eating.”
“I'm fine.”
