HIS FORBIDDEN INGREDIENT

Three

Leonie pov

The first week at Blackwood Manor was a waking dream.

I woke each morning at 5:00 AM, washed in the small staff bathroom, and pulled on my armor – binder first, then a loose undershirt, then the baggy chef coat I'd come to hate. I kept my hair short, my voice low, my eyes down. I became Leo so completely that sometimes I forgot the woman underneath.

But Dorian Black never let me forget that he was watching.

He appeared in doorways without sound. He leaned against the counters while I chopped. Asked questions about technique just to hear me speak. Every night at dinner, he ate in silence while I stood against the wall, waiting for his verdict.

"Good," he would say. Or "Excellent." Or once, so quietly I almost missed it, "Perfect."

That single word kept me warm for three days.

---

By day four, the tension had become unbearable.

I was prepping vegetables for dinner – carrots, julienned fine. My knife moved in a rhythm I'd known since I was sixteen. The kitchen was empty. The house was quiet. I'd almost relaxed when I heard his voice directly behind me.

"Your knife work is beautiful."

I flinched. The blade slipped.

Pain exploded across my thumb. Red bloomed on the cutting board. I hissed and pulled my hand back, but before I could move, he was there – his hand closing around mine, turning my palm up to see the cut.

"Don't pull away," he said, low and sharp. "Let me see."

His fingers were warm. Rough. He held my hand like it was something precious, tilting it toward the light. The cut was shallow but bleeding fast, dripping onto his wrist.

"You're not allergic," I whispered. "My blood is on your skin."

He looked up. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "I know."

Neither of us moved.

His thumb pressed against my pulse point. The blood smeared between us – mine on him, his on me. The air in the kitchen turned thick and hot.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"My thumb?"

"No." His gaze dropped to my mouth. "Being this close to me."

Yes, I wanted to scream. It hurts like a bruise. Like a brand. Like you're pressing on something inside me that I didn't know existed.

"I'm fine," I said.

He held my gaze for a long, terrible moment. Then he released me, walked to the first aid kit on the wall, and pulled out a bandage. He wrapped my thumb himself – slow, deliberate, his fingers lingering.

"You should be more careful," he said. "I need your hands."

Not as much as I need you to stop looking at me like that, I thought.

"Thank you," I said instead.

He nodded, then walked to the door before pausing. "Dinner at seven, Leo. Don't be late."

He left. I stared at the bandage on my thumb – wrapped perfectly, professionally and wondered why my heart was breaking.

---

That night, I couldn't sleep.

I lay in my small room on the third floor, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment. The way he'd held my hand. The way his voice had dropped. The way he'd looked at my mouth.

He thinks you're a boy, I reminded myself. He's just careful because of his condition. It doesn't mean anything.

But I knew better. I'd seen the way his pupils dilated. Felt the way his fingers lingered. Heard the way he said my fake name – soft, almost tender, like a secret.

I pressed my hand to my chest. My binder was off, finally. My breasts rose and fell with each breath. In the dark, I could pretend I was still a woman.

But in the morning, I would put the armor back on.

And I would keep lying.

---

Day five brought rain, the sky opened over the manor, turning the gardens to mud and the windows to mirrors. I was in the pantry, reaching for saffron – using the step stool this time, because I'd learned my lesson – when the lights flickered.

Then it went out.

Complete darkness. The hum of the refrigerator died. The clock on the wall went silent.

I stood frozen on the step stool, one hand on the shelf, my heart suddenly loud in my ears.

"Leo?"

His voice is close. Too close.

"I'm in the pantry," I called out. "The power—"

"I know." A soft click – a flashlight turning on. The beam swept across the pantry and found me. "Don't move. I'll come to you."

His footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Then he was there – so close I could feel the heat of him, smell sandalwood and rain. The flashlight hung at his side, casting shadows up his face.

"We have a generator," he said. "It'll take five minutes." He tilted his head. "Why are you on a step stool in the dark?"

"Saffron," I said. "Second shelf."

He looked up at the shelf. Then back at me. "You're afraid."

"I'm not—"

"You're trembling." He set the flashlight on the shelf, pointing up so the light washed over both of us. Then he stepped closer. His body was inches from mine. "Every time we're alone, you tremble."

Because I'm terrified of you, I thought. Terrified of what you'll see. Terrified of what I want you to see.

"I'm cold," I lied.

"No, you're not."

His hands came up – slowly, so slowly – and settled on my waist. His fingers spanned my hips, thumbs pressing into the soft fabric of my chef coat. I stopped breathing.

"You're not cold," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're scared. And I want to know why."

The lights flickered back on.

The spell shattered.

He dropped his hands. Stepped back. His expression was unreadable – shuttered, cold, the mask back in place.

"The generator is on," he said. "Finish prepping. Dinner at seven."

He picked up the flashlight and walked away.

I stood on the step stool for a full minute after he left, my hands shaking, my hips still burning where he'd touched me.

He knows, I thought. He has to know.

But if he knew, why hadn't he fired me?

I could feel it – the crack spreading through my chest, through my lies, through the armor I'd built so carefully.

One more touch. One more look.

And the girl underneath would shatter the boy I'd become.