“Anything, Seri.” I leaned closer. “Diamonds? Tacos?Kisses?”
A blush exploded across her cheeks. Cruor, she was fun to tease!
“You’ll love my kisses, I promise,” I stage-whispered, waggling my brows.
“Shower!” she blurted. “I just wanted to ask for a shower!”
My grin died mid-waggle.
For several reasons.
“Cas would murder me with my own bones if we mess up your bandages.” The words tasted like motor oil.
That resigned little nod she gave? Worse than swallowing nails. Her sad sigh? Hit my ribs like a sniper shot. Arabesque’s ghostly hands were still throttling her, even here.
I hated that. I hated that she’d been taught to accept less, to settle for scraps, to lose without protest.
“We can definitely do a sponge bath or a washcloth wipe-down, though,” I chirped, trying to heal a wound I hadn’t inflicted. “Old-school glamour, totally retro.”
“That’s fine. It’s just, my hair is so greasy—”
“Hair!” I rocketed upright, nearly kneeing Brumous in his fuzzy gonads. “I can wash that! Easy-peasy!”
“If you’re sure it’s not a bother—”
Clamping my palms on either side of her face, I touched my nose to hers, staring into her wide gray eyes like nothing else in the world existed.
“Serafina Cimmerian. You are not, and will never be, a bother to me or to my brothers. Okay?”
“Okay,” she murmured, although I could see she didn’t believe it.
Not yet, but one day she would.
I’d make damn sure of it.
#
Mrs. Wentzel and the potato peeler looked like they were heading out for the day when I ran into the kitchen.
“Do you need something, Prince Zane?” The chubby old lady didn’t blink when I barreled past her, eyeing up my work space.
The wide farmhouse sink glared at me, its gleaming surface practically begging for chaos. I could already picture it: Water splashing everywhere, shampoo suds up my nose, Seri’s laughter echoing through the room.
Genius. Pure, unadulterated genius.
“Nope. I’m golden,” I told her. “Quitting time for you?”
“Yes, but I’m happy to make you something before I go. Are you looking for a snack?”
“Nah. ’Sides, I can microwave like a pro. If I get peckish, I’ll just nuke something.” I watched her reach for her bag as the boy shrugged on a Naruto hoodie. “I thought Greg said dinner’s at five?”
“True enough, but Mr. Storms likes all staff gone by four.”
She gave me a look that I knew was more than a look, but I didn’t have a good read on her yet, so I just shrugged.
“I’ve left steaks marinating in the fridge for your dinner, along with salad and potatoes,” she added when I stayed silent. “The notepad on the island there has all the instructions for cooking the steak and warming the potatoes. Oh, and there’s a bowl set aside for Brumous, too.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Wentzel. You, too, kiddo.”
