"You're too thin," I say, sitting opposite her with my own plate. "You look like a stiff breeze would snap you in half. You need mass."
I watch her cut into the meat. It’s red in the center. Good.
She takes a bite, chews, and sighs. Her eyes close. "Oh my god."
"Edible?"
"Jax," she points the fork at me. "This is engineering perfection. The Maillard reaction on the crust is flawless. The internal temperature is precise."
Her she goes again with her machine-speak. Too science-cy for me.
She eats with a voracious intensity that satisfies something deep in my lizard brain. I like feeding her. I like watching her take what I provide. It’s a proprietary feeling—keeping her alive, keeping her fueled.
"It’s so different from the rat stew," she mumbles around a mouthful of potato. "I mean, the nutria was... sustenance. But this is actual food."
I pause, cutting a piece of my steak. I look at her from under my brows.
"You really believed that?"
She stops chewing. "Believed what?"
"That it was rat."
She swallows hard. "You said it was nutria. River rat."
I shake my head, fighting the urge to smile. "It was lamb, Miranda. Slow-roasted leg of lamb."
Her jaw drops. "You... you lied?"
"I hate to interrupt you," I shrug. "You seemed so proud of your 'scavenger' resilience. Didn't want to ruin the moment."
"You let me eat lamb thinking it was a rodent?" She looks indignant, her cheeks flushing pink. "That is psych warfare. That is data manipulation!"
"Tasted good though, didn't it?"
"That's not the point!" She stabs a potato aggressively. "I was mentally preparing myself for parasites."
I chuckle. It’s a rusty sound, unused to being brought out in mixed company. "You're gullible for a genius,chérie."
We eat in silence for a few minutes, the tension dial turned down from 'dangerous' to 'simmering.' The fire crackles in the stove. The Christmas lights cast a soft, warm glow on the rough wood. It feels... domestic.
Too domestic.
I finish my steak and push the plate away. I catch her staring at me.
She’s not looking at my eyes. She’s looking at my neck. At the jagged, silver-white burn scar that runs from my ear down to my collarbone. It’s an ugly thing. Raised keloid tissue that never tanned, never healed right because it was made with dark magic.
Most people look away. She’s studying it like it’s a broken gear she wants to understand.
"What?" I ask, wiping my mouth.
She doesn't flinch. Her gaze lifts to mine, violet meeting amber.
"Who did that to you?" she asks softly.
9
MIRANDA
