Page 11 of Knox's Boy

"And then," I continued, "we will go to bed. You will sleep in my bed, beside me. We will not have sex. I will not touch you, and you will certainly not touch me. We will sleep. That is the scene for tonight. Do you understand?"

The tension that had been holding him upright, the frantic need to perform, to please, to pay his debts, severed. He slumped under my hand, his posture collapsing into something soft and yielding. He looked younger than ever, stripped of the burden of choice.

"Yes, sir," he breathed.

The words were quiet, but solid. There was no hesitation, no questioning. Just the pure, clean relief of a boy who had finally been given permission to stop fighting.

"Good," I said, relaxing my grip on his nape, letting my hand slide down. "Now, drink your wine. It's getting cold here."

He lifted the glass to his lips, his hand steady now, and did exactly as he was told.

We then went from the pool to the kitchen. I slid the glass door shut, locking out the night, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft squeak of Florian’s sneakers on the polished slate floor.

He looked smaller in here somehow. "Sit," I said, gesturing to the high-backed leather barstools lining the island.

Florian climbed up, his movements stiff, wary. He hooked his heels on the bottom rung, wrapping his arms around himself as if the temperature had dropped. He was eyeing the kitchen with a mix suspicion and awe.

"Do you actually cook in here?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly against the stone surfaces. "Or is this all just for show? You know, like those showroom kitchens where the oven is made of cardboard."

"I cook," I replied simply, rolling up my sleeves further, past my elbows. I moved to the sink to wash my hands, the water running hot and scalding over my skin. "Though I admit, I rarely have an audience."

"Bet you usually have a private chef," he muttered. "Some guy named Pierre who makes foam out of peas."

I dried my hands on a linen towel and turned to face him, leaning back against the sink. A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. "I dismissed Pierre years ago. Now, it's just me and the groceries."

Florian snorted.

I set to work. Carbonara appeared simple: pasta, egg, cheese, pork, pepper, but it required timing.

I retrieved a slab of pancetta from the refrigerator. Florian watched as I began to slice the cured pork into thick, uniform lardons.

"You hold that knife like you've killed someone," he observed, tilting his head. His eyes were glued to my hands.

"I’m just precise," I said without looking up. "It's respect for the ingredient. If I'm going to consume something, I owe it to prepare it correctly."

"Right. I barely know you and that’s the most ‘you’ thing you’ve said so far. Honoring the fallen swine, I see." He rolled his eyes, but he leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded armson the cool marble. I tried to hide my smirk again. "So, what are we making? Or am I not allowed to know? Is it a surprise?"

"Spaghetti Carbonara," I announced, sweeping the pancetta into a cold cast-iron skillet. I carried it to the range and ignited the burner, keeping the flame low. "Real carbonara. No cream. No peas."

"Oh, I see. Fancy mac and cheese," he drawled. I tried not to laugh, but I could see that he saw my lips tugging up.

I arched an eyebrow at him. "Keep being a little brat, and you'll find yourself having to deal with the consequences," I said dryly, but it was all banter, and he smirked because of it, no longer scared. He looked adorable with that smile.

The fat began to render, a slow hiss filling the quiet kitchen. The scent of curing salts and pork fat began to bloom. I could see Florian’s nostrils flare. He was hungry. The kind of hungry that wasn't just about an empty stomach; it was bone-deep.

"Why do you know how to do this?" Florian asked suddenly, the snark receding for a moment. He was watching me whisk the yolks into the cheese. "You're a CEO, or something, and pretty filthy rich. Shouldn't you be... I don't know, buying stocks?"

"I eat three times a day, Florian. Relying on others for basic survival needs creates a vulnerability I don't care for." I added a copious amount of freshly cracked black pepper to the egg mixture. "Besides, there is order in cooking. Every ingredient has its place and preparation methods. It’s nice. It soothes me."

"Control freak," he whispered, but there was no venom in it. It sounded almost like a compliment.

"Absolutely," I agreed.

The water reached a rolling boil. I dropped the spaghetti in. The pancetta was crisp now, swimming in its own golden rendered fat. I killed the heat and finished preparing the dish.

"Whoa," Florian breathed. The scent of cheese and pepper filled the air.

I plated two portions, twisting the pasta into neat towers, and set a bowl in front of him. He stared at it as if it were a trap.