The walk-in refrigerator proved equally overwhelming. Dairy products with names she couldn’t pronounce, exotic fruits that defied Earth logic, and proteins that spoke of Nova Aurora’s unique ecosystem.
“Anything here is yours to use,” Kovrak said, his tone carrying an authority that brooked no argument. “As much as you need. Don’t hold back.”
The generosity in his words hit her unexpectedly hard. After months of rationing ingredients, of choosing cheaper alternatives to save money, the idea of unlimited creative freedom felt almost intoxicating. But more than that, it felt like trust. Like he wanted her to succeed here, to find her place in his world.
Don’t read into it,she warned herself, even as warmth bloomed in her chest.
Faith pulled out her recipe notebook, the worn leather grounding against her palms. Her pen flew across the pages as inspiration struck with lightning intensity. Honeyed starfruit tarts with Earth-style custard. Dark berry compote folded into delicate layered pastries. A fusion of two worlds on a single plate.
Kovrak watched her work with something that looked suspiciously like awe. The intensity of his gaze made her skin tingle, but she pushed the sensation aside. This was what she understood—the alchemy of flour and sugar, the precise dance of temperature and timing.
“Five desserts,” she announced after fifteen minutes of frantic scribbling. “A complete tasting menu for tonight.”
“What can I do to help?” he asked, already rolling up the sleeves of his charcoal henley.
Faith paused, taking in the sight of his powerful forearms revealed by the pushed-up fabric. The man was devastating enough in his royal attire, but this casual side of him made her mouth go absolutely dry.
Focus, she commanded herself.
“Start with measuring,” she said, handing him a set of scales and containers. “Flour, sugar, spices. Nothing too complicated.”
What followed was perhaps the most endearing display of masculine incompetence she’d ever witnessed. Kovrak approached each measurement with the tactical precision of a military operation, frowning at the scales as if they might betray him. He measured cautiously, second-guessing every gram, frustration tightening the corners of his eyes when the process didn’t yield to his usual command.
“You don’t have to be quite so precise,” Faith said gently, watching him wrestle with a particularly stubborn bag of flour. “Baking is forgiving.”
“I’m not accustomed to imprecision,” he muttered, flour dusting his fingers like evidence of some tactical error.
Then, when she handed him eggs to crack, the result was almost painfully adorable. The rigid, commanding prince who ruled with absolute authority fumbled with fragile shells, his large hands clearly more suited to weapons than delicate kitchen work.
Faith couldn’t help herself—laughter bubbled up before she could stop it.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?”
“I delegate tasks,” he replied dryly, fishing eggshell fragments from a bowl with the concentration of a surgeon. “Not create things with my hands.”
“You’re doing great,” she assured him, meaning it. “Learning new skills takes practice. I’m proud of you for trying.”
Something shifted in his expression at her praise—a softness that transformed his entire face. The prince dissolved, revealing the man underneath, and Faith felt something dangerous flutter in her chest.
The more she directed him—stir this, fold that, taste here—the more the air between them charged with electricity. His focus when he watched her hands move was intense enough to make her skin burn. Every brush of fingers over shared tools felt amplified, loaded with meaning she wasn’t ready to examine.
When she stumbled carrying trays to the oven, his arm came around her waist instantly, steadying her with effortless strength. He lifted one of the heavy trays from her hands before she could protest, the gesture so natural it felt rehearsed.
“Careful,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.
The word sent shivers down her spine, and she tried to push the feeling aside.
Pull yourself together.
As afternoon light slanted through the tall windows and the scents of caramelized fruit and warm spice filled the space, Faith found herself stealing glances at Kovrak in the golden kitchen light. Flour streaked his forearms like war paint. Concentration lined his jaw. When something turned out right—when his whisking actually achieved the peaks she’d described—satisfaction transformed his entire posture.
He was nothing like Chet, who’d competed with her ambition and belittled her dreams. Nothing like any man she’d dated. Kovrak didn’t try to overshadow her talent or redirect her focus. He stepped into her creative storm and seemed to genuinely enjoy the ride.
What would it be like to build something beside someone like him?
The thought came uninvited and dangerous. Not just desserts—a life. A partnership where two people complemented rather than competed.
She’d known him barely a day. Had promised herself she wouldn’t get swept away by a handsome prince with impossible power and eyes that saw too much. Yet here she was, imagining permanence in the space between mixing bowls.