“Tarian could probably fix your eyes. That’s what I meant. But if you’re attached to glasses, give me your prescription, and I’ll have some shipped over, since I can’t imagine a cracked lens is pleasant to look through.”
“That’s…thoughtful.” Unexpectedly so. “While I’m not sure I’m ready for magical laser surgery, I’d appreciate a new pair.” I give him my prescription, which he immediately types into his phone. “Can I ask you a question?”
He nods as he crosses the room, his beige loafers sinking into the plush cream rug I was worried about soiling on my way in.
“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I ask.
“I don’t think she should.”
I’m not sure what to make of his answer, besides the fact that he dislikes me.
“Hungry?” he asks, pulling open the bedroom door.
“Starving.”
Voices drift from downstairs. I can hear Quinn’s in the mix. Electra’s too. Nerves hit me out of nowhere, making me feel like a schoolboy about to ask his crush out on a date.
The instant I enter the kitchen, my lungs expand with a breath shaped partly from the relief of seeing Quinn—bruise-and-blood free—and partly from the awe of seeing Electra move around the kitchen in a black crop top and low-slung, black sweats.
She’s stunning in anything, but there’s something about this outfit—revealing without trying, soft against the hard lines of her body—that gets to me.
God, what I wouldn’t give to return to the guestroom, climb into bed with her, and just hold her against me. Who have I become…?
“Never thought I’d see you wearing tan chinos and a white button-down.” Quinn waggles her eyebrows at me.
I smile. “Never thought I’d see you sharing a meal with Atlantean citizens.”
“Touché.”
Calanthe laughs as she scoops pink risotto into her mouth. One inhale of the spread on the kitchen island has my stomach growling now that I’m no longer covered in blood.
“What’s good?” I ask, moving closer.
I try to catch Electra’s eyes, but they’re laser-focused on the plate she’s putting together.
“Everything’s fucking delicious after a canned food diet.” Quinn must sense the news of her treatment will incense me, because she averts her stare.
“Wasn’t your father your jailor?” Calanthe asks.
“He was.” A blush creeps into her cheeks, throwing her scar into pale relief in spite of the blonde curtain masking it.
Could Tarian—who can apparently fix eyes—smooth skin?
“What is it about asshole genitors?” Electra murmurs.
Calanthe’s smile dwindles.
“You mentioned yours was dead, Quinn?” Malachi reclines against the white marble countertop of the pastry station—yes,this kitchen is equipped with a pastry station—and crosses both his ankles and arms.
“Handyman is dead?” Calanthe gasps.
“Hayes killed him. That’s how she broke free,” I explain.
I don’t miss the look Electra exchanges with Malachi. They must suspect us of lying. I don’t hold it against them. I’d suspect us of lying if the tables were turned.
As I contemplate how to prove we’re on their side, the kitchen door opens and in strides Tarian.
I can’t help but square my shoulders as the head of the Atlanteans moves deeper into the room. Quinn, too, has drawn straighter on her counter stool. She must feel my stare, because her slightly spooked eyes shift toward mine.
