Chapter 398

The slap wasn't as harsh as before. This time, Alexander could almost mistake it for a caress, making the corners of his lips twitch into a rare, playful smirk.

"Did that bastard just smirk?" Isabella muttered to herself, a flush of irritation heating her cheeks. "He's getting bolder by the second."

She crossed her arms defensively, her face burning. "What do you think you're doing, stripping me?"

Alexander gazed at her with tender eyes. "I'm treating your wounds."

What a righteous excuse.

"You could've waited outside for me to change! Or used scissors to cut the sleeve! Was stripping me really necessary?"

Her eyes blazed with fury as she glared at him. "You're shameless, acting like some reckless playboy!"

"Isabella," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "we were married. We've been intimate before—during our marriage, and even after our divorce."

She bit her lip, her breath hitching at the memory of those heated nights.

His voice was thick with restraint, his gaze dark with hunger. "I've seen every inch of you, even the parts no one else has. Wouldn't it be hypocritical to pretend otherwise?"

He didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he closed the distance between them, making her flinch as he peeled away her clothes, exposing her flushed skin to his ravenous stare.

"Isabella, relax. Let me take care of you." His voice was soft, coaxing, so tender it made her pulse race.

His hands trembled as he dressed her wounds, his eyes drinking in the sight of her.

"Thank you," she started, but he cut her off, pinning her beneath him.

"You can thank me another way."

Before she could protest, his lips crashed against hers in a desperate kiss, like a man starved finally finding water.

The air between them grew thick with desire. His mouth moved over hers with unrestrained hunger, yet every touch was laced with aching tenderness. The sensations overwhelmed her, drowning her in pleasure.

She couldn’t feel pain—only bliss, addictive and consuming.

Was this love?

She hated him, yet here she was, lost in ecstasy because of him.

The next morning, Isabella woke sore and exhausted.

Thirsty, she dragged herself downstairs. The sizzle of a pan and the rich aroma of breakfast greeted her.

She paused in the kitchen doorway, stunned.

Alexander stood at the stove, an apron straining over his sculpted torso. The sight of him—so out of place in a domestic setting—was both absurd and endearing.

His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, his rolled-up sleeves revealing corded forearms. Every movement flexed his muscles, a living testament to raw masculinity.

Isabella’s lips curled mischievously. Barefoot, she crept up behind him unnoticed.

A puff of smoke rose from the pan. He wiped sweat from his brow, sighing in frustration.

"Burnt again."

Only then did she notice the pile of charred eggs in the trash.

"You idiot," she teased. "The heat’s too high, and the oil’s scorching. At this rate, you’ll single-handedly decimate the poultry industry."

He startled, spinning to face her. His eyes—usually so composed—were wide with guilt.

"Did I wake you?"

"No," she said dryly. "My internal clock did. Unlike some people, I don’t laze in bed."

She gestured to the trash. "If Daniel sees this, he’ll make you eat every last scrap. He despises waste."

Alexander shrugged. "I wouldn’t mind. The military drilled that into me."

She waved a hand hastily. "Relax, Mr. Kingsley. It was a joke. No need for extreme measures."

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I underestimated cooking. Watching Margaret do it made it seem easy. Turns out, it’s a skill I’m far from mastering."

His admission softened her.

"I wanted to surprise you with breakfast," he admitted, frowning at the mess. "But it seems we’ll have to order from The Chateau Royale instead."

She saw right through him. He was willing to step so far out of his comfort zone—just for her.

This man, who had never set foot in a kitchen during their marriage. Margaret once confided that he’d hated the smell of oil since childhood, a remnant of the slums where he grew up, surrounded by greasy diners.

Touched, she nudged him aside. "Alright, enough destruction. I’ll handle it."

Suddenly, she coughed violently—the smoke triggering her allergy.

"Isabella!" He caught her shoulders, alarmed. "Are you sick?"

"No," she rasped. "Just smoke allergies. Open a window."

Smoke allergies?

Alexander froze.

Had she always had this? Had she suffered through it every time she cooked for him and his family?

Before she could reach for the spatula, he pulled her into his arms.

"Hey," she protested. "How am I supposed to cook like this?"

"Don’t." His voice was rough, his grip tight. "Never cook again."

He buried his face in her neck, his breath shaky. "I’ll learn. I’ll cook for you."

She scoffed. "Give it up. You’re hopeless."

Then she flushed, realizing how domestic that sounded—as if they were bound together forever.