HIS FORBIDDEN INGREDIENT

Four

Leonie pov

The rain didn't stop for three days.

Neither did Dorian Black's attention.

He was everywhere now. In the kitchen while I prepped, reading reports on his tablet but watching me over the screen. In the hallway when I carried dishes, appearing around corners like a ghost. In the pantry when I reached for ingredients, his presence filled the small space until I couldn't breathe.

He didn't touch me again. Not after that night in the dark. But his eyes touched everything – my hands, my throat, the way my chef's coat hung on my shoulders. He was looking for something. I just didn't know what.

On the sixth day, he found it.

---

I'd made a mistake. A small one, but fatal.

Mrs. Holloway had left a box of personal items in the kitchen – a mistake for her, since she never left anything. Among them was a bottle of hand cream. Floral. Rose-scented.

I didn't see it. I was rushing, behind schedule, my binder digging into my ribs. I grabbed the box to move it aside, and my palm pressed against the bottle's pump.

The scent transferred to my skin.

I didn't notice. I kept cooking – searing scallops, deglazing with white wine, whisking beurre blanc. The kitchen smelled of butter and shallots and cream. The rose was buried.

Until Dorian walked in.

He stopped at the threshold. His nostrils flared. His entire body went rigid.

"What is that smell?" His voice was quiet. Deadly quiet.

I looked up from the stove. "Beurre blanc, sir. With a hint of—"

"Not the food." He stepped closer. His eyes were scanning the kitchen now – the counters, the ingredients, me. "Flowers. Roses. Someone brought flowers into my kitchen."

My blood turned to ice.

The hand cream. I looked at my hands. Lifted one to my nose.

Rose.

No no no no.

"I—" I started.

He crossed the space between us in three strides. Grabbed my wrist. Lifted my hand to his face and inhaled.

His eyes closed. When they opened again, they were dark with something I couldn't name. Fury, yes. But also confusion. And desire.

"You don't wear perfume," he said slowly. "You told me. You said you didn't wear anything."

"Laundry soap," I lied. "The staff must have switched brands—"

"Don't." His grip tightened on my wrist. "Don't lie to me again."

I fell silent. My heart was a trapped bird in my chest.

He stared at my hand – at the pale skin, the thin fingers, the nails I kept short and unpolished. Then he did something strange. He pressed my palm against his cheek.

His skin was warm. Rough with stubble. And beneath my touch, I felt him shiver.

"No hives," he whispered. "No itching. No burning." His eyes met mine. "Your skin should be hurting me. It's not."

"Maybe the allergy is—"

"I was tested last month. It's still there." He released my wrist but didn't step back. "You're not a woman, Leo. Or if you are, you're the only one in the world who doesn't make me break out."

I said nothing. I couldn't.

His hand came up. Trembling – I saw it tremble – he touched my jaw. His thumb traced the line of my chin, the soft curve that no amount of baggy clothing could hide.

"I've been watching you," he said. "Every day. Every meal. The way you move, the way you speak, the way you avoid looking me in the eye." His thumb stopped at the corner of my mouth. "You're hiding something. And I need to know what."

"Mr. Black—"

"Dorian." His voice broke on the word. "After six days of watching you cook for me, of eating food made with your hands, of standing close enough to smell rosemary on your skin – call me Dorian."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His thumb was still on my lip, and I wanted to kiss it. I wanted to run. I wanted to tear off my binder and my lies and scream the truth at him.

Instead, I did the only thing I could.

I stepped back.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I need to finish plating."

I turned to the stove. My hands shook as I spooned beurre blanc over the scallops. I felt his gaze on my back – hot, hungry, confused.

"Leo."

"Your dinner will be ready in two minutes, sir."

A long silence. Then: "Dorian."

"I'll bring it to the dining room."

I heard his footsteps retreat. The door swung shut.

And I sank against the counter, pressed my hands to my face, and cried – silent, shaking, terrified.

Because he was right.

I was hiding something.

And he was getting closer every day.

---

That night, I dreamed of him.

I dreamed of his hands on my waist, his mouth on my throat, his voice whispering my real name. I woke up gasping, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, my body aching in ways I refused to name.

It was 3:00 AM. The house was silent.

I couldn't stay in that bed. Not with the dream still burning on my skin.

I pulled on a hoodie – loose, men's, dark – and crept down the back stairs to the kitchen. The lights were off, but the moon through the glass wall turned everything silver. I padded to the herb garden, stepped outside barefoot, and let the cold wet grass ground me.

The air smelled of thyme and rain. I closed my eyes and breathed.

"You couldn't sleep either."

I spun.

Dorian stood at the edge of the herb garden, barefoot, wearing only gray sweatpants and a thin white T-shirt. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were dark in the moonlight.

He looked younger like this. Softer. Human.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"My garden is your garden." He walked toward me, slow, his feet silent on the grass. "You cook with these herbs. You have a right to them."

He stopped a foot away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill me.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"I dreamed of you." His voice was low, raw. "I dreamed of you without your chef coat. Without your beanie. Without whatever you're hiding under your clothes." He tilted his head. "In the dream, you were a woman."

My heart stopped.

"Dreams aren't real," I whispered.

"No." He stepped closer. His chest almost touched mine. "But this is."

He reached out. Not for my hand this time – for the collar of my hoodie. His fingers curled around the fabric, right where my binder ended and my skin began.

"Tell me the truth, Leo." His voice was barely a breath. "Tell me, or I will find out myself."

I should have run. Should have confessed. Should have done anything except stand there with my heart in my throat and my lies crumbling around me.

But I was weak. And tired. And so desperately alone.

"I can't," I said. "If I tell you, I lose everything."

"You might lose more if you don't." His hand tightened on my collar. "I'm not a patient man. And you…" His eyes dropped to my mouth. "You are testing every limit I have."

Then he kissed me.

Not gentle. Not questioning. He kissed me like he was drowning, and I was air – hard and desperate and consuming. His hand slid from my collar to my neck, tilting my head back. His body pressed against mine, and I felt everything – the heat of him, the hardness, the hunger.

And I kissed him back.

I forgot to be Leo, forgot about the binder. Forgot the lies. I was just a woman, kissing a man, and it was the most real thing I'd felt in years.

When he pulled back, we were both gasping.

His forehead pressed against mine. His breath came in ragged pulls.

"You're not a boy," he said.

I didn't deny it.

"I know," I whispered.

He pulled back. Looked at me – really looked. At my jaw, my lips, the shape of my shoulders under the hoodie.

"Why?" he asked. "Why lie?"

"Because you wouldn't have hired me." My voice cracked. "Because I'm a woman, and women make you sick, and I needed this job more than I needed honesty."

He stared at me for a long, terrible moment.

Then he laughed – a low, broken sound.

"You're a woman," he said slowly. "A woman who has been in my kitchen for six days. Touching my food. Breathing my air." He reached out and touched my cheek. "And I'm not sick."

"No," I whispered. "You're not."

His eyes darkened. His hand dropped.