the place with food. And then the staff left, leaving them entirely alone.
So he indulged himself with her. Indulged himself utterly. She’d left his detachment in ruins the night she’d fainted in his arms, and since it had shattered so completely there wasn’t any point in rebuilding it. Not yet at least.
There would be plenty of time for that later, when they returned to the palace, and in the meantime he might as well let himself be a man for a little while. It was temporary. He’d rebuilt himself once before; he could do so again. And besides, if he gave his hunger for her free rein, perhaps it would ease their intense physical chemistry.
She certainly took delight in the lessons he gave her on how to please him, taking to them with relish and enthusiasm, cementing his opinion that the convent was not and had never been the place for her. She had far too much passion to lead the quiet life of celibacy required of a nun, and it made him rethink his position on the Reverend Mother sending her to him.
Perhaps his godmother knew more than he’d initially thought.
While he demanded her passion during the day, in the evenings he decided to cement their relationship further by cooking for her, much to her shock, which amused him. In fact, shocking her for his own amusement was getting to be moderately addictive, and, since she was getting harder to shock in bed, he found he had to demonstrate his talents elsewhere.
Cooking was one of those talents. His nanny had taught him right here in this very kitchen, with the scrubbed wooden table and herbs, and pots and pans hanging from a wooden frame above it. She’d been of the opinion that a man needed a few practical skills and being able to feed himself was one of the most basic. Xenophon hadn’t approved, but Adonis had learned all the same, and discovered he had quite the talent for it.
Since ascending the throne, he never got a chance to cook, and rather to his own surprise he found himself appreciating the opportunity to do so now. Especially with Anna sitting at the table opposite him, watching him chop onions with wide eyes, making him want to show off like a thirteen-year-old boy in front of a girl he had a crush on.
‘I can’t believe you can cook,’ she said in awed tones.
‘My nanny taught me. She was a firm believer in a man being able to look after himself.’
Anna took a sip of the orange juice he’d poured for her, leaning her chin in one hand, watching him. ‘You enjoy it, don’t you?’
Did he? He never did anything for his own enjoyment, because his own enjoyment was never paramount. Yet...there was something about creating sustenance for her that pleased him.
‘There is something meditative about working with your hands,’ he admitted.
Her eyes gleamed. ‘I know how you can work with your hands.’
He smiled. Her fledgling attempts at flirtation were adorable. ‘What a naughty nun you are. Perhaps after dinner I can show you a few other things I can do with my hands.’
She flushed beautifully, her mouth turning up. ‘Perhaps I’ll even let you.’ Her gaze flickered to the flash of his knife on the chopping board and her smile faded. ‘I never learned how to cook. The nuns wouldn’t let me near the kitchen.’
There was a wistful note in her voice, making him pause in his chopping to stare at her lovely face. ‘You sound unhappy about that.’
‘Oh?’ She looked a little surprised. ‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t mean to. I suppose I was only thinking about how lovely it was that you had someone to teach you.’ She let out a breath, but didn’t offer more.
He put the knife down, unable to tear his gaze from the flicker of sadness in her grey eyes. She’d been fostered with the nuns, or so she’d told him that night in his office, which meant that she wouldn’t have had a family. And it was clear from the look on her face now that she felt the lack acutely.
It made his chest tighten with sympathy.
You feel the lack of yours too.
But how could he? He’d never had a family. All he’d had was a training regime.
‘You’ve been brainwashed... Everything you’ve been told is a lie...’
‘I know you were fostered by the nuns,’ he said, shoving that memory aside, ‘but did you ever make contact with your parents?’
Her smile vanished, her gaze dropping to