The morning sun slanted through the grand windows of the Harlan estate, spilling gold over the marble floors like a secret Avery wasn't supposed to touch. But today… she had a mission.
Red apron tied around her waist, sleeves rolled up, and stubborn determination written across her face, Avery stood in Dante Harlan's kitchen like a soldier stepping onto a battlefield.
"I'll make it up to him," she muttered, surveying the ingredients she'd definitely not stolen from the walk-in pantry. "He suffered through horror for me. I can suffer through cooking for him."
The kitchen was sterile—cold steel, polished granite, every drawer organized with military precision. A place not meant for warmth, or mess, or a girl trying to boil eggs and emotions at the same time.
Her hand hovered uncertainly over the stovetop knobs.
How hard can French toast be?
Two eggs cracked like shattered promises, milk splashed, cinnamon overpoured. Flour floated through the air like smoke from a spell gone wrong. She was halfway through whisking when Dante's voice slithered in from the doorway.
"What exactly are you trying to destroy?"
Avery spun around, cheeks flushed with flour and pride. "Breakfast. For you. Try not to sound so shocked."
Dante leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to his elbows, amusement cutting sharp across his face. "And here I thought hell would freeze over before you voluntarily entered a kitchen."
She pointed a whisk at him. "Mock me, and you'll be eating toast with resentment spread thick on top."
A beat passed. Then—unexpectedly—he walked in. Slowly. Like a wolf circling fire. "You're aware you're using salt instead of sugar?"
Avery froze. "...No, I'm not."
He stepped closer, reached around her, and took the bowl gently from her hands. His fingers grazed her wrist—brief, deliberate. "You were. But keep going. I'm curious how deep this disaster can go."
"You could just say thank you, you know."
"Oh, but this is far more entertaining."
She groaned, nudging him away with her hip. "Go sit down, Dante."
But he didn't. He stood behind her, silent and unnervingly still. Watching. Close enough to feel.
"Why are you still standing there?"
"I want to see what happens next. Fire alarms? Explosions? A second summoning of the devil?"
Avery narrowed her eyes. "Fine. I'll show you."
Within minutes, the toast was smoking, a pan clattered to the ground, and a faint alarm began to beep. Dante stepped back with a smirk of pure villainy. "Impressive. That's a record."
Avery coughed, flapping a towel at the smoke. "Shut up. It's a learning curve."
Dante strolled over, lifted the charred remains with two fingers, and examined them as if they were a crime scene. "If your goal was to poison me slowly, you might actually succeed."
"I swear I'm going to throw this at you."
"You'd miss."
She hurled the towel instead. He caught it mid-air, laughing—actually laughing. The deep, rare kind that vibrated through his chest.
And for a second… the kitchen felt warm.
Avery stared at him. "You should laugh more."
Dante's smile faded, but something softer remained. "And you should stay out of kitchens."
She shrugged. "Fair trade."
He stepped closer again, so close her breath caught. "You still owe me."
"Oh?"
"For the trauma of horror movies… and the assault on my kitchen."
Avery blinked up at him, then grinned. "Fine. I'll pay you back. But next time… we're baking."
His eyes darkenedAvery folded her arms. "You didn't say thank you."
Dante turned, his brow lifting in mock disbelief. "Thank you? For dragging me into a flour-coated battlefield?"
"You will eat it all," she pointed out smugly.
He stepped close, lowering his voice, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Remind me to increase the fire insurance."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
He brushed past her, the scent of smoke and spice clinging to his shirt. "Next time you want to play chef," he called over his shoulder, "warn me in advance. I might want to write my will."
Avery rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the smile that curled on her lips. Maybe hell wasn't so bad after all.
Dante narrowed his eyes at her—dangerous, unreadable—but there was something devilish glinting beneath the surface. He stepped closer, towering with that usual calm menace.
"You want to tempt the devil, Avery?" he murmured, voice a velvet threat. "Be careful what you wish for."
She didn't back down. Instead, she crossed her arms and leaned against the marble counter, a sly smile tugging at her lips.
"Or what? You'll lecture me about kitchen etiquette again?"
He raised a brow. "No. I'll have the fire alarms upgraded to military grade. Maybe then your experiments won't try to murder us in our sleep."
Avery gasped, mock offended. "That's not fair! You're exaggerating."
"I'm still tasting smoke," he said flatly.
"Then let me make it up to you." She pivoted toward the pantry with a dramatic swirl of her apron—yes, she wore an apron now, red with little black devil horns sewn at the top. It was ridiculous. And somehow… it suited her.
"I'm baking you something different this time," she announced. "Something sweet. Something safe."
Dante gave her a long look. "Define 'safe.'"
"No explosions," she said cheerily, pulling out flour and sugar like she knew what she was doing.
"Mm. That's not very reassuring."
She rolled her eyes. "Just sit and watch greatness unfold."
"I'd rather call the fire department in advance," he muttered, but he took a seat anyway, amused despite himself.
From the counter, she flashed him a triumphant grin. "You're going to love these cupcakes."
"I'll alert my lawyer in case they're used as a murder weapon."
"Oh, shut up, Dante. You'll eat them and beg for more."
He tilted his head, watching her with the kind of intensity that made her palms sweat—part curiosity, part challenge, part something far more dangerous. "We'll see who ends up begging."
Her hands froze on the mixing bowl.
His voice had dropped, dark and smooth. She glanced over her shoulder. He was still lounging in the chair, all cold elegance and coiled control. But there was a flicker of heat in his gaze now. That rare burn she saw when he wasn't being the king of restraint.
She turned back to her bowl and tried not to let her smile slip.
"I hope you like chocolate," she said lightly.
"I don't."
She froze.
"But I like watching you try."
Avery groaned, tossing a spoon at him. He caught it effortlessly, then placed it down as if amused by the failed assassination attempt.
She baked. Badly. But she baked with fire in her spirit, flour on her cheek, and enough sweetness in her laugh to soften even the devil himself.
And Dante? He watched. Silently. Unreadable.
And for a moment—just a flicker—he looked at her like she was something he couldn't name. Something dangerous. Something soft. Something his.