"I took his fortune and fled, carrying the one secret he could never discover: his heir. Now, he’s stormed back into my life. A predator with no memory of me, no recognition in his cold eyes. He looks at my pregnant belly with disgust, calling my child a “misshapen hope.” He demands I become his private chef, a prisoner in my own sanctuary. Little does he know, with every meal I serve him, I'm feeding the monster who destroyed my life… and the father of my baby. 1 The moment he appeared, I was polishing a silver candlestick with a soft piece of flannel. Behind me, the fire in the great stone hearth danced, stretching my shadow long and thin across the old-growth wooden floors. This place, The Briarwood Inn, was the peace I’d bought with the fortune that severed me from him. It was the only sanctuary for me and the secret I carried in my belly. The heavy oak door swung open, and a figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the gray dusk. An icy hand seemed to clamp around my heart, squeezing the air from my lungs. It was him. Adrian. Even with the predatory aura of a king of the night banked like embers, the sheer pressure of his bloodline thinned the air in the room. I watched him approach, his face, as handsome and unforgiving as a marble sculpture, wearing an expression both familiar and alien. He had forgotten me. He’d forgotten the contract we’d burned to ash, forgotten everything. “Are you the proprietor?” His voice was a low thrum, like the plucked string of a cello, vibrating straight through me. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the flannel cloth. I forced a smile onto my face. “Yes, sir. Are you looking for a room?” His gaze didn’t linger on my face. It dropped, instead, to the swell of my stomach, and a flicker of distaste—so quick I might have imagined it—crossed his unreadable eyes. I knew what it was. He was drawn to the scent of life radiating from me, yet repulsed by the vessel that carried it. “The food you make is adequate,” he said. It wasn’t a compliment; it was a king assessing a tribute. “I require a personal chef. Name your price. I’ll satisfy your greed, and I’ll see to it you’re rid of that… excess flesh.” My hand tightened on the candlestick. For a wild second, I imagined swinging it, shattering that perfect, handsome face. I took a deep, steadying breath, willing my voice to remain even. “I’m sorry, sir, but this inn is my entire life. I’m the owner and the cook. I’m not available for hire.” “Besides,” I added, my smile turning intentionally, deliberately warm, “this isn’t excess flesh. This is my hope.” “Hope?” A corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer, the sharp tip of a canine glinting in the firelight. “The hopes of mortals are always so fragile. And so… misshapen.” He took a step forward, and his shadow fell over me. He leaned in, his breath a cold whisper against my ear, his voice low and laced with menace. “I will say this one last time.” “You will be my chef.” “Or, I will buy this entire valley, including this quaint little inn, and leave you with no choice at all.” “Choose.” 2 My head snapped up, and I met his gaze. There was no negotiation in those deep, bottomless eyes, only a resolve so cold it threatened to freeze the marrow in my bones. He was serious. The man was insane. Buy the valley? This was my refuge, the home I had built for myself and my unborn child with the fortune he had given me and every ounce of my own strength. Who was he to just… buy it? “Sir,” I bit out, the formal address feeling like ash on my tongue, “coercion doesn't exactly scream 'classy'.” “I’m not a nobleman. I’m a predator,” he said, straightening to his full height and looking down at me as if I were a new, interesting acquisition. “And right now, your ‘craft’ has my attention.” I knew fighting him head-on was like throwing an egg against a castle wall. I forced myself to think, to calm the frantic beating of my heart. My eyes fell on the pot of stew simmering on the hearth. I ladled a small bowl and offered it to him. “Please, try this again. It’s made with wild rabbit from the ridge and chanterelles I picked at dawn. It’s been simmering all afternoon.” He glanced down. The rich, earthy aroma drifted up, and I saw something in him—an irritation, a deep-seated restlessness—settle for a moment. He took the spoon and brought it to his lips. In that instant, I saw his crimson-flecked pupils contract sharply. There it was again. That feeling. A familiarity so deeply ingrained in his soul it confused him, yet drew him in with an undeniable gravity. The battle within him was over. He set the spoon down and placed a heavy signet ring, carved with his family crest, on the table between us. “It seems you haven’t made up your mind.” He turned his head slightly. “Isabelle,” he called softly to the shadows by the door. “Bring the men. Clear out the Briarwood Inn. As of tonight, these are my temporary quarters.” “I’ll do it!” The words tore from my throat. A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips. He gave a subtle signal to his second-in-command, and she melted back into the dusk. “That’s better.” “I’ll cook for you,” I said, my fists clenched at my sides, fighting for the last shred of my dignity. “But I have conditions.” “Speak.” “First, I work for you only until the full moon. When your hunting season ends, so does our arrangement.” “Second, I cook only in this inn. If you wish to eat, you come here.” “And third,” I glanced down at my stomach, “I am responsible for my own affairs. That includes my personal health.” He watched me with an air of detached amusement, like a man admiring a small, feral creature still baring its claws from inside a cage. “Done,” he agreed, so easily it stunned me. Just as a breath of relief escaped my lips, he added, “However, I have a condition of my own. For the duration of your service, all of your time… belongs to me.” 3 “All of my time belongs to you?” My brow furrowed. “I’m a chef, not your slave.” A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have no interest in your mortal body.” His eyes swept over me, pausing for a fraction of a second on my belly with an expression that clearly read encumbrance. “I simply need to ensure that when I require sustenance, my cook is readily available.” His logic was sound, yet it sent a chill deep into my bones. But I had no other move to make. And just like that, my Briarwood Inn became the temporary court of the von Carstein heir. And I became Adrian’s exclusive “chef.” The first day, I was introduced to the exacting demands of the immortal. Dawn, noon, midnight—his aide, Isabelle, would appear with some new, outlandish request. I spent the entire day spinning like a top in my own kitchen. After I’d finally served his late-night meal, I watched Isabelle carry a crystal glass of crimson liquid into Adrian’s chambers, her hips swaying with practiced allure. My back ached so badly I had to brace myself against the wall as I made my way to my room. A single thought consumed me: the moment the full moon rises, I’m taking my child and running. I’ll go to the ends of the earth to get away from that monster. The next day, Isabelle’s passive aggression became active sabotage. I was preparing Adrian’s dinner when she clicked into the kitchen on sharp heels, feigning a stumble as she brushed past me. An entire pouch of finely ground salt tumbled into the simmering soup. “Oh, my goodness, Ella. So clumsy of me,” she said, her voice dripping with false regret, her eyes shining with malicious glee. I gave her a flat, unimpressed look, then silently carried the pot to the hearth and poured its contents directly into the fire. Then, from a second hook over the flames, I lifted another pot, identical to the first. Isabelle’s face froze. “You…” “I always make two,” I said blandly. “Just in case.” I walked past her with the fresh pot of soup, adding quietly, “Next time you want to pull a stunt, try paying attention first.” In the dining hall, Adrian watched me set the soup before him. He lifted the silver spoon, and as he tasted it, that familiar frown creased his brow. He set the spoon down, his obsidian eyes locking onto mine. “Have we met before?” My heart skipped a beat. I forced down the wave of panic, plastering on a perfect, placid smile. “Sir, you have a charming way with compliments. It’s an old line, but on a man as handsome as you, I suppose it still works. But really, how would a man of your stature know a simple country woman like me? You must be mistaken.” He studied my face, searching for a crack in the facade. After a long moment, he looked away, picking up his spoon again. “Perhaps.” 4 Adrian decided to “purify” his source of nourishment. A list, written on expensive parchment, was delivered to my kitchen. It dictated that I was to drink only spring water and consume a specific, limited diet of berries and tubers. He had concluded that the “taint” in my life-scent stemmed from my “bloated” form and my varied, common diet. I looked at the list and laughed without humor. He wanted to starve my child in the womb. I tossed the parchment into the fire. My baby needed nourishment. To hell with his purification. I continued to cook rich stews and savory braises, eating well myself until my cheeks were rosy with health. Adrian’s mood grew darker with each passing day. Finally, on the evening of the fifth day, he cornered me by the woodshed. “Why do you defy my orders?” he demanded, his voice dangerously low. “What orders?” I asked, playing dumb. “Ella!” He snapped my name, his anger finally breaking through his cold composure. “Look at the state of you. It’s… grotesque.” His words were a shard of ice, plunging straight into my heart. A hot surge of humiliation and fury rushed to my head, and my eyes instantly burned with tears. Just as I felt my control shatter, a booming voice erupted from the pathway. “Adrian! You blind, arrogant fool! Who are you calling grotesque?” My friend Helena, the village’s revered herbalist and midwife, stood there, a basket of freshly gathered herbs on her back. She stormed forward, shoving me behind her like a mother bear protecting her cub, and glared up at Adrian. “Which one of your damned eyes sees anything ugly here? This is abundance! This is life! What the hell would you know about it? She’s pregnant! She’s pregnant, you idiot!” Helena’s voice echoed across the courtyard. The world seemed to stop. The anger on Adrian’s face froze, replaced by an expression of pure, uncomprehending shock. His gaze moved slowly, inch by inch, from Helena’s furious face to mine, and then, finally, it settled on the high, round curve of my belly. The “encumbrance” he had mocked. The “excess flesh” he found repulsive. It was… a child? His mind went completely blank. Seeing the utterly lost look on his face, the days of pent-up fear and hurt inside me suddenly vanished. I straightened my spine, stepped out from behind Helena, and met his stunned gaze head-on. My voice was clear and steady when I spoke. “That’s right, I’m pregnant. But you can relax, my lord. The baby isn’t yours. You have no reason to feel burdened.”"
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