14
THORNE
If only I had it in me to make a cake better suited to someone I consider my enemy. Something dry and hideous would suffice for tonight’s purposes, for it’s not like anyone will get a chance to eat it. Still, as a baker’s son, I’ve inherited a lifetime of passion and pride in the craft, therefore I find it impossible to give anything less than my all when it comes to dessert. Besides, nothing calms the mind quite like the smell of vanilla buttercream. And I’ll need to be calm, my conscience unfettered by doubt, to do what must be done.
Keeping my breathing steady so as not to disrupt the careful motions of my hands, I apply pressure to the cotton piping bag and dispense the perfect amount of lavender-colored buttercream to create an arched shell. I release the pressure, then start again. Again. Soon I’ve completed my circular border on the cake’s top tier. I step back and assess my progress. My pride bristles at the cake’s simplicity, but it’s the best I could do with the time allotted. Two tiers, three layers each of vanilla sponge and apricot mousse, piped in a gaudy array of pink, teal, and lavender. I had no say in the colors, clearly. While the piping is neat and complex, I’d normally do far more intricate work. It’s what Blackwood Bakery’s celebratory cakes are famous for. Well, that and the taste.
But this will have to do. If I take too much longer, I just might lose my nerve.
I nudge the bridge of my spectacles, ensuring they’re in place, and return to piping, this time with the pink frosting and the round tip. All that remains are the final details on the top tier. Then it’s time to do what I came here for.
A shard of guilt spears my chest, but I breathe it away, focusing on the calming aroma of vanilla. Sugar. The feel of the piping bag in my hands. I’m grateful for the solitude, for the fact that the Briars were purposefully short-staffed and only halfheartedly offered the services of an assistant. Lucky for all of us, I work best alone. And while I prefer the comfort of my own kitchen—or any of the kitchens at the many bakery locations I’m in charge of—Nocturnus Palace’s accommodations are more than suitable. The worktable is an enormous slab of black granite, large enough for several cooks and bakers to work at once. Since dinner is currently underway and all dishes have been served, I haven’t had to share the space for almost an hour.
Which means peace for me. Silence. A perfectly calm and quiet—
“Oh!” The female voice has me nearly jumping out of my skin. Thank the All of All my reflexes are used to disruptions during my work, and I manage not to completely mangle my loop of frosting.
Gritting my teeth, I glance toward the kitchen door where Briony Rose has stumbled in. I saystumbledbecause she clutches the doorframe with one hand and a bottle of Moondrop wine in the other. She’s dressed in a mauve skirt and black silk waistcoat. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her in anything but gray. Unless I count the time she was naked.
My heart kicks up a little at that. Seeing how she leans against the doorframe, hair slightly mussed, eyelids heavy, reminds me too much of a very specific dream we shared. One where she appeared out of nowhere, planting herself in one of my mundane dreams of my kitchen—yes, I dream about my kitchen often, and no I don’t think that’s strange—without a stitch of clothing. I noticed her first, startled to find her well underway in the act of pleasuring herself, then she noticed me. Then we both noticed I was equally as naked and…had developed a rather visible bodily reaction—
I intake a sharp breath, forcing my mind back to the present. To the fully clothed Miss Rose and the version of me who feels no desire for the girl interrupting my cake decorating. She straightens, blushing furiously, either from her overconsumption of drink, embarrassment, or…because she too has been reminded of that dream.
Clearing my throat, I focus my attention on piping the next loop of frosting. “Shouldn’t you be at your party, Highness?”
She wags a finger at me. “I already told you once. You may call me Briony or Miss Rose.”
I rephrase my question. “Shouldn’t you be at your party, Miss Rose?”
“I’m getting some air.” She pushes off from the door frame and squares her stance. She wavers in place, despite her obvious efforts to do otherwise.
“I didn’t realize Moondrop had such high oxygen content.”
She scoffs, but I’m almost certain there’s a laugh tangled in it. “I’m overwhelmed, all right? You would be too if you were in my place.”
“If I was in your place, I’d leave the baker to his business.”
“You’re such a sour bastard. Can you at least pretend to be as nice as you are in my dreams—” Her eyes go wide and her free hand flies to her mouth.
I know I should act surprised. She doesn’t yet know thatIknow the truth of our dreams.
Before I can respond, she whirls abruptly around and starts to march out the door. But instead of exitingthroughthe door, she collides with the doorframe. She emits a startled grunt, and her momentum propels her backward, forcing her to stumble over her feet—
I don’t recall telling my body to move, but one moment I’m piping the cake, and the next I’ve discarded my tools and find myself behind her, my hands framing her shoulders as her back slams against my chest. She stiffens against me, frozen for a long moment. And a strange moment too, for it forces me to ponder why I’m here, why I did this, why I kept an enemy from falling on her ass when I could have let the drunk little idiot take a spill.
As if coming to her senses, she leaps forward and faces me on unsteady legs. Her cheeks blaze a fiery pink, lips pursed with indignation. “No.”
I pull my head back but smother my confusion in an icy mask of indifference. “The phrase you’re looking for isthank you.”
“No. Just…no. I’m not clumsy.”
“I never said you were.”
“I’m not the type to fall or need rescuing from a big strong man.” She rolls her eyes as she says the last part.
I huff a cold laugh. “Oh, you’re notthat kind of girl,is that what you’re saying? Should I have let you fall then? Would you be happier with a bruised tailbone?”
“My…tailbone is none of your business.”
