Lovenap

Chapter 3

The next morning, Dimitri woke to the chaotic symphony of clattering pans, running water, and a string of soft but creative Italian curses drifting from the kitchen. Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the penthouse in a warm golden glow that made the cream leather furniture look even more inviting. He stretched lazily in the guest bed, the soft sheets whispering against his skin, and a slow smile spread across his face. This was not how he’d expected to wake up after being “kidnapped.”

He freshened up in the attached bathroom, the hot water cascading over his shoulders and back like a much-needed reset. The crisp, citrusy scent of the expensive soap cleared the last fog of sleep from his head. Once dressed, he strapped his concealed holster back into place beneath his shirt, the familiar weight of the gun settling reassuringly against his body. He chuckled quietly to himself in the mirror. She’d never even thought to pat him down. Adorable.

He fired off a quick text to Nikolai — I’m fine. Keep an eye on the Italians — then powered the phone off and slipped it safely into his pocket. No need to complicate things just yet.

A warm, comforting aroma soon pulled him toward the kitchen: melting butter, sweet vanilla, and sizzling sausage. He paused in the wide doorway, leaning against the frame as the scene unfolded before him.

Bianca was in full chaos mode, blonde hair slightly tousled, flour dusting her apron and a smear of batter across one cheek. She moved with enthusiastic determination, humming an off-key tune under her breath while expertly flipping golden syrniki in a large pan. The stovetop was a battlefield of bowls, spatulas, and sizzling skillets. She looked utterly in her element — and completely captivating.

Not wanting to disturb her, Dimitri quietly took a seat at the marble counter. The cool, smooth stone felt refreshing under his forearms as he settled in to watch her. There was something disarmingly sweet about the way she bit her lip in concentration, the way she danced around the kitchen like it was her personal stage. For the first time in years, he felt truly entertained… and something warmer stirring in his chest.

When she finally turned and spotted him, her big brown doe eyes widened in surprise, then sparkled with genuine excitement.

“I wasn’t exactly sure what you liked for breakfast, so I did a little web search,” she said brightly, wiping her hands on the apron. “It said a favorite among Russians is a pancake thingy called syrniki? So I thought I’d give it a shot! I also made scrambled eggs and sausage. Give me a quick sec — I’ll make you a plate!”

She moved with bustling energy, piling a heaping mountain onto his plate: perfectly golden syrniki dusted with powdered sugar, fluffy scrambled eggs speckled with herbs, and plump, juicy sausages. For herself, she took only a modest portion, as if she were still playing the role of captor rather than hostess.

She slid onto the stool beside him, her knee brushing warmly against his under the counter, and looked up with expectant eyes.

Dimitri cut into the syrniki first. The warm, creamy tvorog interior gave way to a lightly crisped exterior, the subtle sweetness blooming across his tongue. It was rich, comforting, and deeply nostalgic — just like the ones his grandmother used to make on frosty Moscow mornings, served with a dollop of smetana and berry jam.

“Delicious,” he murmured, a genuine smile breaking through. “Even the babushkas would approve. You nailed the texture — soft inside, crisp outside. Impressive for a first try.”

Her entire face lit up with pure, unrestrained joy. “Really!? I’m so glad!”

Dimitri chuckled at her enthusiasm. Without a word, he reached over and transferred an extra sausage link and a generous scoop of scrambled eggs onto her plate.

She looked up at him, confused, fork hovering mid-air.

“You eat like a little Zayka, Zayka,” he said gruffly, his voice warm with affection.

She c****d her head, the motion sending a strand of blonde hair falling across her forehead. “Does that mean rabbit? Have you been calling me a rabbit this entire time?”

Dimitri smiled, slow and teasing, his eyes lingering on her face. “Nah… too cute to be simply called a rabbit. It means bunny.”

She scrunched up her nose adorably, a playful spark lighting her eyes. “Well, if I’m a Zayka, then you’re a lupo.”

“Which is?”

She shook her head with a triumphant little grin, clearly enjoying the game. “For me to know and you to figure out.”

They continued eating with easy, playful banter flowing between them. The morning light caught in her eyes every time she laughed, and Dimitri found himself hanging on every word. He told her a quick story about his own grandmother’s kitchen disasters that had ended in laughter instead of dinner, and she countered with tales of her family’s chaotic Sunday meals. The tension from the night before had melted into something surprisingly comfortable — and dangerously addictive.

When Dimitri finished his last bite, he leaned back in his chair and gently patted his stomach. “I’ve been a hostage before,” he said, voice low and teasing, “but never this well-fed. You keep this up and you’re not going to be able to get rid of me even if you tried.”

Bianca blushed a pretty shade of pink but tried to look stern, straightening her shoulders. “Just because I took you hostage doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be well fed or treated humanely.” She paused, biting her lip, then added with renewed determination, “On that note though… it’s time for us to head out.”

She led him back down to the parking garage, her heels clicking confidently on the concrete. Dimitri slid into the passenger seat of the sleek black Alfa Romeo, the red leather already warm from the sun.

“So where are we headed?” he asked, buckling his seatbelt.

She started the engine with a determined little huff, gripping the wheel. “To go get you some fresh clothes! Can’t have my hostage looking like he just rolled out of a club all day.”

Dimitri grinned as she pulled out of the garage and into the bustling Chicago streets. “Your hostage, huh? I like the sound of that more every minute, Zayka.”