MAEVE
I stood uncertainlyin the kitchen as Poe walked behind the island. “Coffee?”
“Yes please.”
He put a mug under the fancy espresso machine and set a skillet on the stove. “Eggs okay?”
“Eggs are fine. Can I help?”
He walked to one of the big glass-doored refrigerators. “I got this one. You’ll be cooking a lot from here on out.” He straightened with a carton of eggs and a pack of cheese in his hands and met my gaze. “We like to eat.”
My cheeks burned and I felt hot all over again even though it was significantly cooler inside the loft than it had been on the balcony. Why did everything Poe say sound dirty?
I slid onto one of the chairs lined up next to the hunk of polished wood that separated the kitchen from the rest of the living areas. The island was one of the few things in the loft that wasn’t concrete or metal, and I had to admit it was a nice contrast with the industrial vibe of the rest of the loft.
Poe retrieved my coffee from the machine and set it on the island. “Sugar, cream?”
I shook my head and breathed in the rich scent of black coffee. Was there any better smell in the world?
Poe started cracking eggs into a ceramic bowl.
“So, um… what do you like to eat?” I cursed myself for the question. Now that I’d read innuendo into his comment about eating, anything on the subject sounded sexual.
“We’re not picky.” He kept cracking, working his way through six of the eggs he’d pulled from the refrigerator. “Well, Remy is picky. But Bram and I will eat anything.”
“How is Remy picky?” It was easier to focus on Remy’s food preferences than to think about all three of the Butchers eating… whatever Poe was talking about them eating.
“He’s a health nut,” Poe said, finishing the last of the eggs. “Puts all kinds of weird shit in his smoothies but turns his nose up at a cupcake.”
He went back to the fridge for some cream and opened it near the bowl.
“If you use water instead of cream, the eggs will be softer,” I said without thinking.
He froze with the carton of cream in his hand, ready to pour. “Water?”
I nodded.
He set down the carton of cream. “How does that work?”
“Eggs already have a lot of protein. The protein in dairy bonds to the protein in the eggs. It makes them denser.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Huh. How much water?”
“For a dozen eggs? Probably about a quarter cup.”
He went to the cupboard, removed a measuring cup, and turned on the faucet.
“Why are you putting water in the eggs?” Remy said, entering the kitchen from the hall.
He was wearing black track pants and no shirt. I was starting to think the Butchers didn’t believe in shirts, and I really wishedthey did, because being forced to look at their sculpted chests seemed like cruel and unusual punishment given that they’d spent ten hours hunting me through underground tunnels in the hopes that they could turn me into their slave for three months.
Remy’s chest was absent ink, but thorny vines worked their way up his arms and over his shoulders. He went to one of the fridges and opened the door and I saw his back tattoo clearly for the first time: a giant skull like the one the Butchers had worn in the tunnels with the wordsMemento Moriinked in scrolling script over the top of it.
Remember you must die.
Poe added the water to the eggs and gave them a stir before pouring them into the waiting pan. “Maeve says water’ll make the eggs softer than milk or cream.”
Remy turned around with a handful of ingredients in his hands: yogurt, berries, and a couple of pouches whose labels I couldn’t read. “Culinary school, right?”
