Page 44 of Vow Of Fire

I wasn’t a bad cook. I even enjoyed it when I had the time, which wasn’t often these days. I’d taught myself over the years, even doing a short culinary course in Tuscany when I’d spent some time there after college.

Those were good years. I’d been young, fearless, and obsessed with art, beauty, history, culture, and food. I’d traveled to all the major galleries in Europe. Spent hours at the Louvre staring at the Mona Lisa’s smile, at the Rijksmuseum admiring the quiet radiance of Vermeer’s light. And in Madrid, marveling at Goya’s The Third of May 1808.

And now I was here, trapped in a tiny cabin in the middle of freaking nowhere, waiting for the devil himself to come back and not kill me.

Just great.

The stew had been simmering for some time, and I was back on the sofa reading The Count of Monte Cristo, when the door swung open and in walked Dante carrying a suitcase—my suitcase.

Kicking the door closed behind him, he glanced toward the stove, then wordlessly walked over and deposited the suitcase at my feet.

“Did you get my laptop?” I asked, setting down my book.

“What are you doing?” I was surprised at his harsh tone.

“What does it look like? I’m reading.”

“Not that.” He turned and nodded toward the kitchen. “That.”

“I’m making supper.”

He scowled at me. “Why?”

“Because I’m hungry and I don’t want to eat processed crap anymore. What about you?”

He gave a sullen shrug. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

Something had obviously rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe he was hangry.

“Well, I have,” I said as I got up to check the stew. “Thanks to Kyle, we have all the ingredients for a decent meal.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then said, “I’ll put this in your room.”

My room.

Like this was a bed and breakfast I was staying in. What a joke.

When Dante came back, he perched against the small table between the living area and the kitchen. It only fit two chairs, but it was big enough to eat on.

“Someone’s been in your apartment,” he said, after a beat.

I swung around to stare at him. “What? Who?”

“I don’t know, but the door’s been kicked in and the lock is broken.”

The spoon I was holding clattered to the floor. “You mean I’ve been burglarized?”

He ignored it. “Doesn’t look like anything’s been stolen. Can’t say for sure, obviously, but nothing appears to be out of place.”

I gasped. “My laptop!”

“In the SUV.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Oh, thank God.” My life was on that machine. Sure, I backed up to the cloud, but not everything. Not my personal stuff.

I pulled out a chair and sank onto it, dropping my head into my hands. “Why is this happening?” As if things weren’t bad enough, now someone had raided my home.

Dante didn’t answer, just studied me wordlessly.