DASHIELL
Alexander cooking was a sight to behold.
The way he moved effortlessly in the kitchen like he was born and bred in the chambers of one was almost hypnotic. His dark eyes were focused, roaming over every ingredient with surgical precision. Those large, veined hands clutched the utensils so firmly, the thick muscles in his forearms shifting and flexing with every motion. I couldn't force myself to look away.
My eyes went wide in clear shock as he sliced through vegetables with the knife so fast, with zero fear that he would cut himself. His large, muscly frame moved around the space so fluidly it was mesmerizing.
He was mesmerizing.
"Wow," I muttered under my breath as I watched him work. If I didn't know he was a doctor, I would have thought he was a…
"Stop staring, little anomaly."
Alexander's deep, flat voice snapped me out of my trance. I jerked my gaze away instantly, cheeks burning, but I couldn't stop myself from sneaking another look a second later. He was still standing there, tall and powerful, sleeves rolled up, looking completely at ease while dominating the kitchen island.
"I wasn't staring," I mumbled, even though we both knew that was a lie. "I just… how do you know how to cook? You grew up with staff doing everything. I thought people like you didn't… you know… touch stoves."
He didn't even glance up from the pan where he was sautéing vegetables and scrambling eggs with perfect control. His voice remained calm and matter-of-fact.
"I watched Alexa. She was our family cook for twenty years before she passed away. I used to stand in the kitchen and observe her when my mother refused to step foot in here. Celine would rather die than dirty her hands with something as beneath her as cooking." He flipped the omelette with a single smooth flick of the wrist. "So I learned. Efficiency is useful. Dependence is not."
I blinked, processing that. The casual way he spoke about his mother's disdain and the fact that he'd actually bothered to learn from the staff felt strangely intimate coming from him.
"So… you cook because you don't want to be like them?" I asked quietly.
Alexander finally looked at me, those dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach flip. He was so much taller, so much broader, towering even when he was just standing behind the counter. The height difference made me feel small in the best and most dangerous way.
"I cook because I can," he said bluntly. "And because I like control over what goes into my body. Unlike the rest of my family, who outsource every basic need and then complain when things aren't perfect." He plated the food — a fluffy cheese and vegetable omelette that actually looked restaurant-quality. "Eat."
He slid the plate in front of me, then leaned forward slightly, placing one large hand on the island so he loomed even more. His voice dropped, low and filthy.
"And when you're done, you're getting on your knees like I told you. Low blood sugar won't be an excuse anymore."
My face heated all over again. I picked up the fork, trying (and failing) to hide how flustered I was. "You're really not going to let that go, are you?"
"No." He watched me take the first bite with dark satisfaction. "I don't make idle threats, little anomaly. Especially not when it involves your mouth."
I nearly choked on the perfectly seasoned omelette. It tasted amazing, but all I could focus on was the way he was staring at me like he was already imagining exactly how he was going to use me afterward.
And the worst part?
A tiny, traitorous part of me was starting to look forward to it.
I tried to eat, but it was impossible with Alexander's intense gaze fixed on me the entire time. Every bite felt heavier under his scrutiny. My cheeks stayed flushed, heat crawling up my neck as I kept feeling his eyes on my mouth, my throat, my hands.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.
"You should… join me," I said, voice a little too high. "Or I won't be able to eat."
Alexander's lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement. "Is that so?"
He still made a second plate for himself, moving with that same effortless grace. Then he sat down across from me, his much larger frame making the island feel smaller. Even seated, he towered over me.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. The omelette was genuinely delicious, but my mind kept racing. I knew he had made it very clear before, no personal questions about him. No digging into his past or his feelings. But the words were already bubbling up, and I couldn't hold them back.
"So… why did you become a doctor when you have such a talent for cooking?" I asked carefully, keeping my eyes on my plate.
Alexander took another bite, chewing slowly before answering in that flat, unbothered tone.
"Because cooking feeds one person. Surgery lets me open bodies and fix what's broken inside them. It's more efficient." He paused, then added with dark amusement, "And because I enjoy having complete control over whether someone lives or dies. Cooking doesn't give me that kind of power."
I nearly dropped my fork. My eyes shot up to meet his. He was watching me calmly, like he'd just commented on the weather.
"That's… terrifying," I whispered.
He shrugged, completely unfazed. "It's honest. Would you rather I lie and say I became a doctor to 'help people' like the rest of them pretend?"
I swallowed hard, heart racing. The casual way he admitted something so dark should have scared me more than it did. Instead, it only made the strange pull toward him stronger.
Alexander leaned back slightly, his dark eyes dragged over me slowly.
"Finish your food, hubby. You're going to need the energy."