“You know I can’t.”
“But we need to find out if Arabesque uses Amazon Prime for torture devices or makes them herself,” I fake-whined.
“The terms of the truce—”
“We’ll take care of it ourselves.” Cas cut his eyes at me, and I gave him a nod back. I knew the perfect man for the job. “And hold off on the officiant until our beloved can stand on her own without falling over.”
“Understood. If there’s anything I can do—”
The call died under Cas’ thumb. His breathing changed into tiny, wounded noises he’d deny making if I mentioned them.
I wouldn’t, of course, but only because my heart was making the same sounds.
A warning and a challenge, Lucian had said, the first rip in his velvet composure. For a guy who usually treated emotions like a tax audit, he’d sounded almost human.
“Pops is angry,” I announced to the nachos. “No doubt he’s shredding paperwork right now. His version of screaming.”
“Anger is appropriate.” Cas’ pacing kicked up again, a metronome set to existential crisis tempo. “Rage ismoreappropriate. Did you see how she flinched? Did you see the pure fear? Did you see—”
“Of course we did!” Ko roared as he stood and started slamming cupboards. Glass clinked like nervous laughter. Then, after a moment, he rumbled, “Soup. She needs chicken soup. Better than broth out of a can. Electrolytes, too. Hmm. Maybe a cheeseburger?”
“Ah, yes, the four food groups of trauma recovery: Protein, minerals, grease, and denial,” I agreed as I finished up the nachos.
Ignoring me, Ko unearthed a stock pot big enough to bathe a toddler in, then tossed me a package of organic chicken thighs. I laid it on the kitchen island and raised my eyebrows at Cas. Still scowling, he grabbed the cutting board, pulled a knife from the block, and began chopping the poultry into perfect one-inch cubes.
I watched them orbit each other, Koa slopping over with love and vegetables and Cas controlling his panic with control.
“Next season of this shitshow’s gonna bewild.” Receiving no applause for my effort to distract, I tried again. “Betcha twenty she’s got a tragic backstory involving at least one evil step-relative.”
“We’re not casting a Brothers Grimm film here,” Cas growled.
“Aren’t we? Let me see. Royal intrigue? Check. Animal companion? Check. Beautiful princess? Check. Three dashing suitors? Check. Directed by Michael Bay, of course.”
“You’re not dashing.” Ko snorted, dumping diced onions into the pot. “You’re barely housebroken.”
The soup began simmering, filling the air with sage and worry.
“We should establish shifts,” Cas muttered. “Someone to watch her until she’s conscious.”
“Rock, Paper, Scissors for the first watch?” I suggested.
“You’ll cheat,” they said in unison, which, fair.
As they debated guard rotations like over-caffeinated Secret Service agents, I drifted to the window. Moonbeams lacquered the apple orchard silver and burned white on the lake in the distance. On my tongue, the irony tasted more bitter than one of Koa’s herbal teas.
All those years dodging politics, refusing to play Lucian’s games, only to get sucker-punched by fate’s idea of a meet-cute. This was not how our escape from the vampire court was supposed to go.
And yet, a woman who smelled like infection and iron deficiency slept upstairs and in our hearts.
I wanted nothing more in life than to be lying next to her, counting her eyelashes and caressing her curves, but knew she wasn’t there yet. Wasn’t even at the hand-holding stage, let alone any of the funner marital activities, and most likely wouldn’t be for a while.
Didn’t matter, though. I just wanted to see her. Smell her. Touch her hand every once in a while to make sure she was real.
“Stop brooding. That’s my role.” Ko nudged me with a steaming mug. “Drink this.”
I sniffed the concoction.
“What am I, a dung beetle? This smells like shit.”
