Ana
Of course I would crave French onion soup on the one day a week that Agnes doesn’t work. I despise cooking for myself, especially when the dish is complicated in any way. I can manage a quick fry up in the morning if I need to, and boiling pasta to eat with some easy jarred sauce doesn’t irritate me too badly. Most of the time if I’m craving something specific that I don’t have the patience or the skill to make myself, I’ll order in.
French onion soup is not a takeout food. It needs to be eaten hot and fresh, while the cheese is still bubbly and the broth steams with every spoonful scooped. The idea of it has my mouth watering, and I know myself well enough to know that the fixation will not rest until I feed it.
So, despite knowing it’s a bad idea, here I am in the kitchen, fumbling with a bag of yellow onions. I know I’ll need to peel and cut at least six of these to make enough soup for myself and the boys. Armani and Colton are currently out walking Sirius, and Cassio is in Killian’s office, going over some sort of paperwork. Seriously, you would think some of these mob bosses were CEOs with the amount of bureaucratic bullshit they handle.
But with everyone busy, and no Agnes in sight, I’m on my own for this soup mission. I can feel the frustration building even as I pick up the first onion to pick off the skin. I hate the way it feels in my hands, and the grating way tiny flecks of residue sticks under my nails. They may be dreadfully unmanicured currently, but that doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate the awful sensation of flakes invading under the tips.
“I already hate you,” I mumble at the current piece of produce in my hand. “Agnes needs a raise. So many things have onions, and you’re awful to touch, do you know that?”
More of the dry onion skin crinkles off, and I release a deep sigh. “I haven’t even gotten to the cutting yet. You know, the violent part where you make me cry. Arsehole onions.”
God, what is wrong with me? This is what my time being cooped up at home has come to… I’m speaking to fucking onions.
It’s not even just the texture being offensive to the touch, it’s the way it litters the counter and feels taxing to even begin. Dropping what I’m doing, I reach for my phone and turn on some soft relaxing music, hoping the songs will tune out some of my annoyance.
I’ve successfully removed the skin of three onions when the sound and the mess start grating on my last nerve. While trying to prepare the fourth, I fumble with it and it falls into the pile of skin. Something in me just snaps and hot angry tears well in my eyes. Screaming in frustration, I pick up the bloody vegetable and throw it as hard as I can across the room.
Not satisfied with the outburst, I pick up another and treat it the same, throwing it further. “Fuck you!”
My face is flooding with angry moisture and the back of my neck goes hot. I feel so uncomfortable and upset. Why did I even try? I knew I wouldn’t enjoy this, but attempting to cook has never pissed me off to this magnitude. What is wrong with me?
“Ughh!” I exhale, rushing to the sink to wash my hands furiously.
Heavy footsteps fall closer and closer as I scrub the onion remnants from my fingers, but I don’t look up.
“Ana?” Cassio’s voice, deep with concern, meets my ears. “What’s happened, I heard screaming. Are you okay?”
“No!” I burst out, slamming the faucet off and shaking out my wet hands. “I’m not okay at all.”
I’m practically growling at him, hotly reaching for a dish towel. He must see the cutting board and knife on the counter, because he’s grabbing my hands in a second flat, immediately searching for an injury.
“I didn’t cut myself,” I grumble, snatching my hands back. “I didn’t even get that far, how pathetic is that?”
“What?” He asks, brows dipping in confusion. “Nothing about you is pathetic, Ana.”
“I’m throwing a fit over fucking onions, Cassio,” I exclaim, tossing my arms up in the air. “Crying because I can’t have the French onion soup I want. That’s pretty damned pathetic.”
His head shakes and he cups my face with large, steady hands. “Sweetheart, take a breath.” Thumbs brush my cheeks, gliding over the fallen tears and swiping them away softly.
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I mumble frowning. “I’m not sweet. Dante calls Jade that. She’s sweet.”
“You’re sweet too, Ana,” Cassio says patiently. “But if you don’t like it, I’ll stick to calling you forza, and my wife.”
“You still want to call me your wife after this little display?” I ask bitterly. “Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“Embarrassed that you threw a couple of onions and yelled in frustration while in your own home?” He breathes out a laugh. “Ana, you haven’t done anything wrong. Some people punch walls or hurt actual people when they’re upset. I hardly think one little outburst is something too concerning.”
“I’m not a good wife,” I rasp, not accepting his sweet words.
Cassio’s hands subtly flex around my jaw. “Why would you say that?”
“I can’t cook,” I start, flicking my ashamed gaze away from his face.
“Agnes cooks. I can cook. I don’t give a shit how you are in the kitchen, Ana.”
“I’m a mess,” I continue sadly.
“I signed up for your mess.”
“I’m needy.”
“I like being needed.”
“I’m lazy,” I argue. “I hardly get off the couch nowadays. I don’t even want to take showers anymore, it’s exhausting. I only do it so I don’t smell.”
“You’re not lazy, you’re recovering. I didn’t like showering either after Isobel passed. Being alone with your thoughts isn’t fun when you’re grieving, and mundane activities can feel pointless, it’s normal.”
I sigh and Cassio lifts my chin.
“Anything else, Wife?” he challenges, lifting a brow. “Because so far, you haven’t told me anything to scare me off.”
Blinking at his controlled demeanor, I frown. “How can you sound so pleased when you call me that? You get nothing out of this, Cassio… we haven’t even consummated.”
His jaw flexes, like he’s attempting to control his reaction, like I’ve angered him. “I am pleased to call you my wife,” he says, voice hard like gravel. “We haven’t consummated because it isn’t the right time. I get more out of this than you will ever know, and I promise you, sex has nothing to do with it. You aren’t just a body to me, Ana. You are… everything. And apparently, I need to do more to make that clear.”
His words make me freeze, spine stiffening. “I—”
I can’t possibly ask for more. How could he do more for me than he’s already done?
His hands drop from my face, and I watch him in my stupor as he rounds the counter, opening the fridge. He doesn’t explain the action, merely gets what he needs and returns to stand in front of me.
“Here,” Cassio says softly. I blink away the last of the blasted tears in my eyes to find him putting a small box in my hands. It’s chilled from the fridge and is decorated with the logo of my favorite sweet shop. “Take these, go relax in the bath, and then take a nap. I’ll get dinner prepared for later, all right?”
Fumbling with the folded lid, I peek inside the container and almost burst into tears again. “You got me chocolate covered strawberries?”
Peering up at him through wet lashes, I find a softness in his eyes that I’ve never quite seen before. “It’s no big deal,” he says, shrugging it off. “You like them, so I got them.”
“That simple, huh?”
“That simple, Ana.”
Setting the gift down, I throw my arms around my husband’s neck and hug him hard. He grunts softly at my attack, but doesn’t push me away. His arms slowly wrap around my back in return, and I rest my head against his hard chest. We’re only ever this close at night when he holds me until I fall asleep, but I can’t help physically showing him my appreciation.
A brief kiss is pressed to the top of my head before Cassio ushers me upstairs. He leaves me alone in my room, and I take his advice without argument. Soaking in a steamy, bubbly bath, I savor every single strawberry in the box. They’re my favorite kind, after all. Ruby red, perfectly ripe, and only dipped in the finest milk chocolate NYC has to offer.
I hadn’t realized that Cassio paid attention the last time Agnes picked these up for me, especially since he wasn’t home. I did share with Colton and Armani though—since Agnes was brilliant enough to buy extra—so perhaps one of them told him.
Either way, I’m thrilled that he somehow knew. The treat, coupled with the luxurious bath were enough to pull the tension straight out of me. Enough to make me sleepy and crave the nap Cassio suggested. I doze off only seconds after my head hits the pillow, and dream about absolutely nothing.
A sweet, savory scent lulls me out of the most peaceful sleep I’ve had in weeks. I wake up smiling, feeling a small ache in my cheeks that lets me know I’ve been doing it in my sleep.
When my eyes blink open, I find Cassio by the side of my bed, setting a steaming bowl down on my bedside table. Rubbing my blurry eyes, I blink rapidly in disbelief.
“You made me the soup?” My voice cracks, eyes now fixated on the beautifully made ramekin of French onion soup. The bread and cheese on top is broiled to perfection. Just looking at it has my mouth watering. “It must have taken you hours…”
“Only two and a half,” Cassio says, trying to downplay the action.
My bottom lip wobbles, an overwhelming surge of gratefulness filling me up inside. This man treats me with the sort of kindness that most people only ever dream about. He’s a walking talking fairytale, and his ring is on my finger.
My feet are shaky underneath me as I stand, invading my husband’s personal space. Like before, he doesn’t back away from my approach. He watches me carefully, his gaze hot on my face. Only this time, I’m not going in for a simple hug. My right hand trembles as I lift it to his face, hoping he won’t step back as I lay it on his strong jaw.
He doesn’t move, hell, I don’t know if he even breathes. Rising up on my toes, my chest brushes against his, and our lips hover millimeters apart. Gathering every bit of courage I have, I slowly lean forward and close the gap. As soon as we touch, my knees go weak and my eyelids fall. His lips are so soft, and something inside of me seems to flutter at the taste of him.
For a second, I think Cassio won’t kiss me back—that he’ll just stand in front of me in shock. But before I can pull back to check in with him, he takes me by surprise. Big, warm hands grasp my hips and tug me even tighter against his frame. His mouth presses forward, lips parting to move with sensual precision. A whimper vibrates up my throat, and an ache begins to build in my core.
My fingers migrate around the back of his neck, threading through the soft edge of his hair. I hold him there tight, desperate to draw this out. This kiss isn’t chaste like the one that sealed our marriage bond, this is something else entirely.
After only seconds of kissing, I can feel arousal pooling in my knickers, and heat crawling up my neck. Signs of unmistakable desire that have me craving more. Feeling bold, I move my unoccupied hand from my side, dragging it up the defined muscles of Cassio’s stomach to rest on his firm chest. He kisses me harder in response, forcing an all-out moan to slip from my lips to his.
Our connection breaks and my eyes blink open. He’s still holding me firmly, the space between us hardly there at all.
“Cassio,” I rasp, feeling my heart racing in my chest.
“Who was so awful to you that the simple act of being cooked for earns me a kiss like that?” Tucking a stray bit of hair behind my ear, his thumb traces my bottom lip before he returns his hand to my hip.
“That wasn’t a simple act,” I disagree, shaking my head. “And I didn’t kiss you just because you cooked for me. I’ve been thinking about it for days.”
He makes a deep humming sound. “Is that right, little wife?”
“I don’t even think you see how incredible to me you’ve been,” I admit in a shy murmur. “You do all these considerate things, expect nothing in return, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
“You don’t have to do anything about it, Ana,” Cassio says sternly. “You’re my wife, and I’m going to treat you as such. No matter how we came together, it’s my duty to assure that we stay together. My honor, Ana.”
“How can you say things like that and not expect affection in return?” I ask, licking my lips. “You make me feel things, Cassio. Things I never expected…” I trail off, swallowing hard.
“Things you never expected to feel again?” He asks the question like he already knows the answer. Like he’s familiar with the concept. My heart gives a hard thump, and my head dips in a nod.
“Did you know that you’re only the second person I’ve kissed?”
Cassio tilts his head, and his hands momentarily flex around my hips. “I guess that’s something else we have in common then, isn’t it?”
Shocked by his confession, I blink and try to digest it. “You were only ever with Isobel?”
He nods once.
Just like me with Cole.
“We’re both each other’s second kiss,” I realize aloud.
“We are.”
When I was younger, I fantasized about sharing all my firsts with my future husband. I wanted every milestone to feel special, even if it was unrealistic. It’s part of the reason I didn’t have sex until I was nineteen.
But Cole and I didn’t share that first. He had been with plenty of girls before meeting me, and I couldn’t exactly fault him for it. He didn’t know I existed, let alone that he would want me. He did tell me that once we met, he never even considered pursuing another girl. Cole was hooked, and that’s probably why I eventually fell for him. His obsession felt like a warm hug, or a comfy sweater—once it stopped frightening me.
But in falling for Cole, I resigned myself to losing my naive dream of sharing firsts with the man I would share my life with. And with Cassio, of course it wasn’t a possibility for either of us. So it seems we won’t share a bunch of firsts, but maybe we’ll have plenty of seconds in common.
“Am I the second person you’ve shared a bed with?” I blush a little as I ask.
A soft smile tugs at his lips. “Unless you count my brothers, yes.”
“I like that,” I admit shyly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I confirm quietly. “I almost wish Cole and I married, because then this would be a second marriage for both of us.”
“No, Ana,” Cassio says with the shake of his head. “This marriage is a first for us both. A Moretti Blood Marriage isn’t something either of us have shared with another. It’s entirely ours.”
His words echo around in my mind and all I want to do is kiss him again.
“Come,” he insists, taking my hand. “Eat with me downstairs. You’ll want this while it’s still hot.”
But French onion soup isn’t what I’m craving anymore. And if my husband didn’t just spend hours making it for me. I’d tell him to hell with the food, and drag him straight into bed to kiss me breathless once more.
