Page 87 of Phantom Flower

But they were already gone.

Dimitri let out a long sigh. “Ignore him. Ilya is… Ilya.”

I nodded. The conversation with Alexei left a strange feeling in my stomach. Why was he asking about Marco? And why did he look so serious about it?

Dimitri snapped me out of my thoughts. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked softly, eyes searching mine. “You look tense.”

“I’m fine. Just… hungry.”

He kissed my forehead, then the flower in my hair. “Come on. I’ll make you something.”

He always cooked for me.

I sat on one of the high stools at the kitchen island, watching Dimitri move around. No one had ever cooked for me like this.

My mother did cook for me, but there was never any care behind it. She would make overly sweet desserts even though I hated them, or bland, boring dishes that felt more like obligation than love. Every time I reminded her of my allergies, she would nod absently and forget again the next day. It stopped hurting after a while.

But my dad… he remembered everything.

Every preference. Every allergy. Every little detail. He would spend hours in the kitchen on weekends, humming old Japanese songs while he made my favorite dishes. He always knew exactly how I liked my rice, how much miso to put in the soup, which vegetables I pretended to hate but secretly loved.

And now… Dimitri did too.

He even watched videos late at night. I had caught him once, earphones in, brow furrowed in concentration as he studied Japanese cooking techniques. He learned how to make proper dashi broth, how to fold tamagoyaki just right, how to balance flavors the way I preferred. He started making healthier meals because he knew I was not a fan of overly sweet or heavy foods. But every once in a while, he would still make pancakes in the morning, stacked high with berries and a drizzle of honey, smirking as he set the plate in front of me.

“Life needs sweets, little fairy,” he would say, kissing my temple. “Even you.”

And then there were the Russian dishes.

He insisted on making them for me. Borscht, pelmeni, honey cakes from his grandmother’s recipe. He would watch my face carefully as I took the first bite, looking almost nervous. It was strangely adorable - this violent, terrifying mafia prince getting anxious over whether I liked his babushka’s pirozhki.

He was cute.

Dangerous. Possessive. Sometimes cruel. But so fucking cute.

Dimitri glanced over his shoulder at me, catching me staring. “You’re thinking too loud again,” he said. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

I rested my chin on my hand, watching him chop vegetables. “Just… thinking about how you always cook for me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” I said softly. “It’s the opposite of bad.”

Dimitri turned fully toward me, leaning against the counter. His gray eyes studied me with that unnerving intensity, like he could see every crack and scar inside my soul.

“Tell me,” he ordered gently.

I swallowed, feeling suddenly vulnerable under his gaze.

“No one has ever cooked for me like this. Not since my dad. My mom… she tries, I guess. But she never really paid attention to me. She would forget what I couldn’t eat. Forget what I liked.” I looked down at my hands. “But you… you remember everything.”

I met his eyes again.

“You pay attention to me. All the time. Even the little things.”

Dimitri was silent for a long moment. Then he walked around the island, stopping right in front of me. He tilted my chin up with two fingers, forcing me to look at him.

“Because you matter,” he said. “Everything about you matters. What you eat. What makes you smile. What makes you feel safe. I want to know it all. I need to know it all.”