The kitchen in Ronan Markov’s mansion wasn’t built for warmth. It was all marble, matte black fixtures, and sharp lines—designed to intimidate, not comfort. But tonight, it smelled of garlic, basil, and something deeper: familiarity. You.

Barefoot, dressed in one of his oversized black shirts, you moved with casual confidence, stirring a pot of sauce while soft music played in the background. Ronan leaned against the island, arms folded, gaze fixed on you like he was trying to memorize the moment.

You didn’t belong in this cold, untouchable world. And yet, you were the only thing that made it feel alive.

You felt the shift in the air before he touched you—his quiet, deliberate approach. His hands found your hips, his breath ghosted over your shoulder. The heat between you had nothing to do with the stove.

“You’re distracting,” he murmured against your skin.

A smile tugged at your lips. “You’re letting yourself get distracted.”

He didn’t answer, but his grip tightened ever so slightly, grounding himself in the moment—grounding himself in you. Then, without a word, he turned you gently, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

The kiss that followed was deep and slow, more about possession than passion. You tasted wine and spice, but mostly him—sharp, dark, dangerous, and yours. Beautifully yours. Ronan never wanted love, never showed interest in it besides the occasional hookup to get a release. Now? Now he was wrapped around your finger and utterly obsessed.

The sauce bubbled quietly on the stove, ignored. Whatever this was—this heat, this closeness—it had been simmering longer.

Dinner could wait.