Later that evening, the mansion's dining room was unusually quiet.
The long oak table was set as impeccably as always, silverware aligned with clinical precision, a centerpiece of fresh lilies resting in a tall crystal vase. Erin, seated on one side with her ankle propped on a cushioned stool, glanced up from her untouched plate as Xander settled into the seat directly across from her.
To her surprise, the scent wafting from their plates wasn't hers. She hadn't cooked.
She hadn't even stepped into the kitchen since her fall.
And yet, dinner was served. Rich, steaming, and… clearly, not to Xander's liking.
He took one bite of the grilled salmon and immediately scowled, chewing slowly like he was trying to solve a complex equation with his tongue.
Erin raised a brow.
He took another bite, reluctantly, and frowned deeper. "Is this supposed to be lemon herb? It tastes like someone whispered 'lemon' at it from a different room."
She stared at him.
Another bite. "Did the chef boil the potatoes or soak them in despair first?"
Erin blinked, bewildered. "You've been eating Pierre's food for eleven years without a word."
Xander gave her a deadpan look, his fork paused midair. "That doesn't mean I ever liked it."
"You had three servings of his beef bourguignon just last week."
"I was starving."
"You told him it was the best stew you'd ever had."
"I was being polite."
Erin stared at him in disbelief, lips parted. "You? Polite?"
Xander merely gave a lazy shrug and returned to tormenting his meal with exaggerated distaste. "Can't blame me for developing standards when you started spoiling me with actual flavor."
Erin felt something flutter at that—somewhere between irritation and an inexplicable warmth. She looked down at her own plate, which still looked perfectly edible to her, and picked up her fork.
She barely managed two bites before Xander's voice cut in again, quieter this time.
"How's the ankle?"
Her gaze lifted, surprised.
He was watching her, not with amusement or that usual teasing glint, but something softer. Something that made her stomach twist more than the salmon ever could.
"It's fine," she said, quickly.
He didn't believe her. She could see that immediately.
Without another word, Xander stood up, rounded the table, and crouched beside her before she could stop him.
"Xander—"
His hands were already at her foot, gently brushing aside the fabric of her loose pajama pants. "Still a bit red," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "You didn't ice it again, did you?"
"I didn't think it needed—"
"You should've."
Her breath hitched. His fingers weren't even touching her skin directly this time, but the proximity was enough to make her chest tighten. There was no smirk on his face, no snide remarks or lazy drawl. Just… quiet attention. Focused. Sincere.
And that's what scared her the most.
"Why are you doing this?" she blurted, the question slipping from her lips before she could stop it.
He paused, looking up at her.
There it was.
That moment.
That split second where his composure faltered just enough for her to see something raw flicker through it. Confusion. Hesitation. A search for words that didn't come.
But he didn't say anything.
He looked at her ankle again, then rose slowly to his feet. "You should elevate it after dinner."
And just like that, he returned to his seat.
Erin stared at him, stunned and slightly breathless, trying to piece it together. Xander Volkov wasn't known for unnecessary concern. He wasn't gentle. He wasn't attentive. And he definitely wasn't the type to play nurse.
Unless…
Unless he was up to something.
Her brows drew together.
Does he know?
Is this all some elaborate attempt to throw me off?
Her heartbeat picked up. There had been no concrete proof, no confrontation, but something in her gut whispered that Xander's sudden shift wasn't random. He was many things—moody, arrogant, blunt—but unpredictable? Rarely.
He had to be up to something.
And if he was playing games, then so would she.
She would play them better.
Erin picked up her fork and took a casual bite, forcing herself to chew like nothing had just happened. But under the table, her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the cushion, and her mind was racing.
Whatever Xander Volkov thought he was doing, he wasn't going to win.
Not this easily.