HIS FORBIDDEN INGREDIENT

Two

Leonie pov

Tuesday arrived like a verdict.

I stood outside Blackwood Manor at 8:00 AM, my knives in a roll, my binder cutting into my ribs, and my heart threatening to break through my chest. The mansion loomed above me – dark stone, iron gates, windows that reflected the gray morning sky like empty eyes.

You can still walk away, I told myself.

Then I thought of the eviction notice. The hospital bills. My mother's face.

I rang the bell.

Mrs. Holloway answered within seconds, her hawk eyes sweeping over me from head to toe. I'd dressed carefully – baggy chef coat, men's dark jeans, work boots. My hair was tucked under a beanie. No makeup. No perfume. Nothing that could betray me.

"Leo Chen," she said. Not a question.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Follow me. Mr. Black is in the kitchen. He doesn't like to wait."

She turned and walked inside. I followed, my boots silent on the marble floor.

The kitchen was even more stunning in person. Copper pots hung from ceiling racks. A massive wooden butcher block sat in the center, scarred from years of use. Through the glass wall, I could see the herb garden – rosemary, thyme, basil, all glistening with dew.

And standing by the window, silhouetted against the morning light, was Dorian Black.

He was taller than I'd expected. Broader. His presence filled the room like smoke – invisible but impossible to ignore. He wore a simple black sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was tousled. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass.

He turned when I entered.

Those whiskey eyes found me immediately, they held me and scanned me the way I'd scan a piece of meat – assessing, calculating, looking for flaws.

"Leo," he said. His voice was low, rough, like stones grinding together. "You're early."

"I was taught that early is on time, sir."

"Sir." A ghost of a smile. "We'll see if you still call me that after an hour in my kitchen."

He stepped closer. One step. Two. Close enough that I smelled him – sandalwood and smoke and something else, something dark and male that made my stomach flip.

"You have thirty minutes," he said. "One dish. Anything you want. Use anything in this kitchen." His gaze dropped to my hands. "No pressure."

Then he walked to a stool at the island, sat down, and folded his arms. Waiting. Watching.

I turned to the stove and tried to remember how to breathe.

---

I chose something simple. Something I could cook in my sleep. Oeufs en meurette – poached eggs in red wine sauce. A dish from my Lyon days, humble but demanding. If I screwed up the poach, he'd know. If the sauce broke, he'd know.

My hands moved on autopilot. Shallots, diced fine. Bacon, rendered until crisp. Red wine, poured slowly. The kitchen was filled with the smell of Burgundy and butter and thyme.

But I felt his eyes on me the entire time.

Every slice of the knife. Every stir of the spoon. Every time I bent to check the oven, I felt his gaze on the back of my neck, hot and heavy. My binder pressed tighter. My palms sweated.

Don't look at him. Don't think about him. Just cook.

I plated the dish. Two perfect poached eggs, nestled in red wine sauce, garnished with crisp bacon and fresh parsley. I set the plate in front of him and stepped back.

"The spoon is on your right," I said. My voice came out steady. Somehow.

He ignored the spoon. Picked up the plate. Brought it to his nose and inhaled – slow, deliberate, almost intimate. Then he lifted it to his lips and drank directly from the rim.

The sound he made shattered something inside me.

A low, involuntary mm – deep in his chest, almost a groan. His eyes closed. His throat moved as he swallowed. And when he opened his eyes again, they were darker. Hungrier.

"Sit down," he said.

"Sir?"

"I said sit down." He nodded to the stool beside him. "You're not my employee yet. Sit."

I sat. Close enough that our knees almost touched. Close enough to see the faint scar through his left eyebrow, the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his pulse beat in his throat.

He pushed the plate toward me. "Taste it."

"I know what it tastes like—"

"Taste it with me."

He picked up the spoon – the only spoon – and dipped it into the sauce. Then he held it out. Toward me.

He wants me to share his spoon. His spoon. In his mouth. Then mine.

My hand trembled as I took it. The metal was warm from his lips. I closed my eyes and tasted.

The sauce was perfect. Velvety, rich, the wine reduced to silk. But all I could think about was the fact that my mouth was touching something that had just been in his.

"Good," he said softly. "You're hired."

I nearly dropped the spoon. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He leaned back, but his eyes never left my face. "Breakfast at seven. Dinner at seven. You'll have your own quarters on the third floor. Mrs. Holloway will show you."

I stood up. My legs felt like water. "Thank you, Mr. Black."

"One more thing." He stood too. Towered over me. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to see his face. "I have a condition. You know about it."

"Yes, sir."

"Then you know why I only hire men." His voice dropped. "So I need you to understand something, Leo."

He reached out. Slowly. Giving me time to pull away. I didn't.

His index finger touched my wrist. Just a light brush – a whisper of contact. But my entire body lit up like a live wire.

"No women in my kitchen," he said, his eyes boring into mine. "No women in my house. No female cooks, no female guests, no female anything." His finger traced a line down my palm. "If I find out you've been lying to me about anything…"

"What happens?" I whispered.

His hand dropped. He stepped back. The heat vanished.

"You don't want to find out."

He walked out of the kitchen without another word.

I stood there, my wrist still tingling where he'd touched me, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.

He doesn't know, I told myself. He can't know.

But the way he'd looked at me – that hunger, that suspicion, that barely leashed intensity – I knew with cold, absolute certainty that he was already looking for cracks in my armor.

And I had just given him the first one.