Mistress to a Monster

Snow had fallen like the weather forecast had predicted.

A nice blanket of white covered his property. The house was freezing, and his guards and maids had no choice but to gather some firewood, to help warm the house. It was just typical that his central heating had to give out just as there was a snowstorm.

Milah wasn’t in her room.

After their moment in the bathroom, Damon had decided it was time for her to go to her own room. He needed his space, and to have that, Milah had to be far away.

He’d been so close to breaking his own rules and simply fucking her. It would have been easy.

Milah would have put up a fight, but he’d seen her body’s reaction to him. The flush to her cheeks, the budding of her nipples. She’d been aroused by him playing with himself. He had to wonder if she would be wet. He’d find out soon enough.

It took several hours to get the house warm, but as he stood in his office, he stared at the flames. There was no way he’d be able to get a plumber or an electrician out to the house. More snow was forecast to fall.

This was just fucking typical.

His father had told him to always be on top of the house, and that meant the barest of needs. Check on leaky roofs, the gas boiler, all of it.

He’d been so blinded by his thirst for revenge on Russo, he’d allowed the house to fall behind in its maintenance.

This house was part of De Luca blood. His family had been here for several generations. Once the snow was thawed, he would have the necessary work taken to repair it. His father would have been angry at him right now.

There was a knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said.

He turned to see James entering. “Sir … er…”

“What is it?”

“The Russo girl is in the kitchen and the staff don’t know what to do.”

Damon frowned. “What?”

James repeated it, not that he needed him to. With there being no warmth in the house, he had to put the guards on wood duty, chopping and gathering it.

Milah should have stayed in her room, beneath the covers, not in the kitchen.

Brushing past James, he made his way toward the kitchen, and sure enough, his staff kept a distance from her. Even the chef didn’t want anything to do with her.

There was like a wall around Milah, and he stared at the woman, wondering if she cared at all that many people couldn’t stand her just because she was a Russo.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Milah looked up. She wore a large turtleneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. He didn’t see what she wore underneath as she also wore an apron. Her long raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her face that had seemed so pale the past few days was finally blooming with color. Her cheeks were a little flushed.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she asked. “I’m cooking.”

“If you plan to poison me, don’t bother.”

“As if I would know how to get poison. No matter what you think, De Luca, I am simply coming here to cook. My mother—” She stopped. Her lips pressed together, and he watched as she also paused in her cutting.

“Your mother what?”

He wasn’t interested in what she had to say. If she didn’t answer him, he’d have the guards escort her out of the kitchen.

“My mother always said that a casserole always had the ability to warm the body. She would … make this whenever there was a snowstorm.” Milah wouldn’t look at him, but he heard the catch in her voice.

Damon stared at her.

She was … upset. The snowstorm reminded her of her mother.

He’d never met the woman, but sources and spies had told him she was a lovely woman. Sweet and kind. Not a good match for Russo.

“I will not intervene with your staff or your chef. I only ask for a small space, a few ingredients, and a pot. That is all.”

“What do I get out of it?” Damon asked.