Bound To The Devil

Chapter: Cracked Eggs and Cracking Tempers

The clatter of silverware echoed through the sprawling dining hall of the Volkov estate.

Luca sat at the far end, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at a very specific plate.
Luca sat at the breakfast table, wrapped in one of Damien’s oversized shirts, his hair messy, a deep scowl tugging at his lips. The baby bump was barely visible beneath the loose fabric, but the mood? That was impossible to miss. The sunlight filtering through the tall windows only seemed to mock him.

"Why are the eggs runny?" he said flatly, voice dangerously low for something so trivial.

Damien, seated beside him, raised a brow. “They’re poached, not runny,” he said carefully, tone calm. “Exactly the way the chef always makes them.”

“I don’t want poached,” Luca snapped, shoving the plate forward. “I want scrambled. Is that too much to ask?”

Damien glanced at his main mafia men  , at the table—Leon, Aiden, and Rael—all of whom froze mid-bite. The tension was thick. Luca’s hormonal outbursts were becoming routine, but no less terrifying.

Damien inhaled slowly. “Then I’ll have the chef make something else.”

Luca turned his face away, lips trembling in annoyance. “You don’t get it. You never do.”

That stung more than he expected.

Damien’s jaw twitched. His fingers curled into a fist beside his coffee. He didn’t snap. Not yet.

“Luca,” he said in a low tone. “It’s just breakfast.”

“Oh, just breakfast?” Luca turned to him with wide, offended eyes. “I’ve been growing your demon child inside me, vomiting for weeks, and you can’t even get the eggs right?”

One of the mafia men choked on his juice. Leon looked away. Aiden subtly moved his chair back, sensing the coming storm.

Damien’s patience cracked.

But he controlled it and told chef to make the eggs again.

*****
(After few minutes, )

“I said I wanted soft scrambled,” Luca muttered, stabbing the eggs on his plate with unnecessary aggression.

Damien, dressed in slacks and a crisp shirt, leaned against the counter sipping black coffee. “Those are soft scrambled.”

“They’re not. They’re—” Luca slammed his fork down with a clatter, “—dry. Like powder. I can taste the dryness.”

“You could just say ‘thank you,’” Damien said tightly. “Everyone’s up early making sure you’re fed, and you're throwing a tantrum over eggs that's exactly what you said you wanted...”

Luca’s jaw dropped. “Did you just call it a tantrum?”

The silence in the kitchen turned sharp. One of the mafia guards nearby, slicing fruit, immediately pretended to be deeply invested in a banana.

“I’m pregnant,” Luca said, standing up. “I am literally creating life with your ungrateful genes, and you’re yelling at me over eggs? Really?”

“I didn’t yell,” Damien said, setting his mug down a bit harder than necessary. “But if you keep pushing me, I will.”

The shift was subtle but deadly. That tone—cool, lethal, clipped—belonged to a man who used to snap necks without blinking. One of the guards tensed, hand twitching toward his belt, as if ready for fallout.