Ruthless Savior - Julia Sykes Page 0,27

overwhelming luxury of the space to the fact that my huge, scary captor was preparing breakfast for me was too bizarre to be real.

The gleaming stainless-steel appliances, frosted glass cabinets, and stark white marble countertops gave the impression that a professional chef lived here. But Raúl barely seemed to know how to scramble an egg, judging by the acrid burning scent that permeated the air between us.

I leaned over the kitchen island, propping one hand beneath my chin to observe the strange scene playing out before me. My other hand idly brushed over my skirt, my fingers tracing the little dots of textured cotton on the pretty coral sundress. It had arrived for me this morning, along with dozens of other gorgeous clothing options. I’d never had such an expansive wardrobe in my life, and Raúl’s casual offering of so many fine things only heightened the dreamlike quality of my situation.

Indulging myself in the fantastical scenario, I openly studied my brooding, beautiful captor. With his bulging muscles and fierce frown, Raúl was intimidating even when he was cracking an egg. His sensual lips seemed to caress even the most colorful curses, which were dropping from his tongue in a steady, frustrated stream.

I ogled him for several minutes before his attention finally fixed on me. He paused for a moment, two steaming plates filling his massive hands. His green eyes glowed, and his nostrils flared.

My cheeks heated, but I simply blinked at him, maintaining a casual bearing. Now that he’d fixed that burning gaze on me again, my situation began to feel far more real. How long had I been shamelessly staring at him?

I tried to keep my features blandly innocent. He didn’t know I’d been watching, did he?

Because if this was reality, it was beyond embarrassing that I’d been gawking at my powerful captor.

Or was he my host? He approached me and set a plate of eggs on the counter, arranging my homecooked breakfast beside the glass of orange juice he’d provided for me before he’d started cooking.

This was all too bizarre. Ever since I’d known him, I’d been his hostage, forced to live in a drug lord’s fortress and work as Carmen Ronaldo’s maid. I’d betrayed him and put his life at risk.

How long ago had that been? Two days? Three?

And now, I’d tumbled into what was surely some alternate reality where surly Raúl let me sleep in his sinfully comfortable bed, bought me beautiful clothes, and prepared my meals with his own hands. All while asking for nothing in return.

A dozen little needles pricked at the back of my mind, demanding my full attention.

He must want something in return. Raúl didn’t strike me as a charitable man. He expected me to reciprocate in some way he hadn’t decreed yet.

I eyed him warily as he slid into the seat next to me and proceeded to dump hot sauce on his eggs without comment. Once his plate was more sauce than egg, he offered the bottle to me with a low grunt.

This felt more like my familiar captor, despite the unbelievable setting. This was how we’d communicated for weeks: him offering me small kindnesses accompanied by rumbling, caveman sounds.

I took the bottle from his hand with a murmured “thanks.” He responded with another grunt, but it was closer to a purr this time. His face was only visible in profile, but I noticed his lips quirk up at the corners.

He gulped his coffee, closed his eyes, and let out a deep, satisfied hum.

I quickly turned my attention to my own plate, my cheeks flaming. This suddenly felt indecent, like I was a voyeur watching a beast in his natural habitat.

When the first bite of scrambled eggs hit my tongue, I understood Raúl’s liberal application of hot sauce. The consistency was unpleasantly rubbery, and he didn’t seem to have added any seasoning whatsoever. Didn’t the man not even understand the use of salt and pepper?

He glanced over at my plate, and I realized that most of his breakfast had already disappeared in a few shoveling mouthfuls. I quickly lifted another forkful of the chewy mess, eating with as much gusto as I could manage. Really, I’d made do with far worse—and sometimes nothing at all—over the last several months. I mustered up a small, appreciative noise, despite the fact that my tongue was burning from the hot sauce.

Is this stuff nuclear?

I waited until his lips curved into a smile again before gulping down my orange juice.

“More?” he asked, pointing at my