Healing and worship.
Rory’s complained about the cooking conditions. Loudly. Repeatedly. And creatively. In between taunting them about my “I love you”. I shake my head and laugh softly, letting him have it. They do, too.
Because I don’t know if I would have made it without him there. In the Circle.
“This is not a kitchen,” he growled the first morning, waving a dented camp pot like it personally offended him. “This is a goddamn medieval torture chamber with a hot plate.”
He’s still complaining.
It’s notthatbad. They’d planned this place well in advance. The generators hum, powering the lights, air vents, and one working chest freezer. The shelves are stacked with long-life food, jars from the cabins, and sacks of flour and dried beans.
But the cooking setup? That’s where Rory draws the line.
They’re using a pipe stove welded from old mine ventilation shafts. It’s set up near one of the draftier tunnels to help vent smoke. It runs hot—toohot, according to Rory, who’s singed off his arm hair twice and claims he’s aging ten years every time he has to crouch over it. There’s a couple of battered cast-iron pans, a tripod rig, and a Dutch oven that’s seen better centuries.
“It’s like cooking on a goddamn dragon’s nostril,” he groans. “You either burn it or serve it raw. No in-between. And don’t even talk to me about baking down here. Unless y’all want biscuits like throwing bricks.”
Despite it all, he still shows up at meal times, sleeves rolled, apron tied like he’s on a cooking show no one asked for. He’s kept us fed with hearty stews and even managed eggnog for me one night.
But until they have a real stove and an honest-to-god kitchen again—Rory’s going to be impossible.
And secretly, we all know he loves the challenge.
Especially when I do this.
“Ack! Woman,” he mutters when I pounce on him from behind, throwing my arms around his neck, chest on his back. “Ye trying to kill me?”
I rub my face against his jaw, inhaling the scent of him. Scotch and smoke and his natural masculine musk. Scottish fire, as I like to call it.
“Hey, Red.”
I don’t know why I’ve been pouncing on him more the past couple of days. I’ve also been cuddling between him and Seth on the couch more while I introduce them to some decent movies. LikeSaw,The Quiet Place, andThe Terrifier.I revel every time Seth squeezes my hand or pales.
Right now, he’s lounging on the couch, fast asleep, holding an axe across his chest. He’s been pretty protective lately. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear at any moment.
“Smells good,” I tell Rory, inching a finger toward the hot stovie—a Scottish dish of stewed potatoes and onions. But he’s paired it with
He smacks my hand away. “Nah, naughty Lass. Ye wait for dinner like the rest of ‘em.”
“Ugh! I’m hungry.”
“Ye’re always hungry.”
“I’m wasting away!” I moan as the smell of the dish sends my taste buds into a hyperdrive of longing.
“I’mwasting away in this damn mine.”
“I believe we can help with that,” Vincent announces behind us.
I snap my head up and get to my feet, limping toward him. Raphael and Jude enter the cave following him.
When I stagger too quickly and lose my balance, Vincent lunges for me, catching me, and I blush under his gaze. Especially when I’m not wearing anything more than his sweater. A backup he knitted for me. No panties either.
But the hat…I’m also wearing the old newsboys cap. It’s ironic how Alden burned the original. Maybe poetic irony. We all left our pasts behind to burn in that place.
Jude holds up a tablet, wagging it in the air before gesturing me to the bed. I glance at Raphael, who nods to me, and Vincent carries me to the bed, placing me between him and Jude. The tablet hums to life, revealing three different properties for sale. A thrill surges through me, and I perk up.
“We’ve been scoping out some for the past week or so. Not perfect, but not too run down. They all got bones to keep us busy,” Jude explains while Vincent nuzzles my hair, inhaling me. “This is the first.”
