How do you free someone who doesn’t know they’re caged?
He moved towards the tower, following the path he’d taken that morning when he’d first approached. He could see the balcony where he’d climbed up earlier and caught movement behind the glass.
She was watching for him.
Something in his chest tightened.
He tried the door, not at all surprised when it refused to open, then climbed the wall once more, the fresh meat secure against his back. When he reached the balcony, she was already there—standing in the doorway with Pip on her shoulder, her long blonde hair catching the afternoon light.
“You came back,” she said.
“I told you I would.”
“I know. But people in stories often break their promises. I wasn’t sure if real people did too.”
Real people do it all the time,he thought.That’s why the stories are full of it.But he didn’t say that. Instead, he unslung the meat and held it up for her inspection.
“I brought food. Have you ever had fresh game?”
Her eyes widened. She stepped closer, examining the prepared cuts with the same scientific curiosity she’d shown when studying his scars.
“I’ve read about hunting and preparing animals for consumption. But no—all my food comes from the supply shipments. Preserved and packaged.” She looked up at him, wonder written across her features. “You killed this? Today? For me?”
His beast howled with satisfaction at the knowledge that he had provided for his mate.
“You need proper nutrition. Whatever’s in those shipments, it can’t compare to fresh meat.”
“Will you show me how to cook it?”
He hadn’t planned on that. He had imagined himself preparing the meal while she watched and then presenting it to her. But of course she would want to participate. Of course she would want to learn.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
The kitchen filled with familiar scents as he worked—the sizzle of fat in the pan, the rich aroma of cooking meat, and the herbs she’d contributed. She stood beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body, her attention fixed on every movement he made.
“The key is temperature,” he explained, adjusting the heat beneath the pan. “Too high and the outside burns before the inside cooks. Too low and the moisture escapes, leaving the meat tough.”
“Like soil conditions for seedlings,” she said. “Too much water drowns them. Too little and they can’t absorb nutrients. The balance has to be exact.”
“Exactly like that.”
She reached past him for a spoon, her arm brushing against his. The contact sent a jolt through him that was completely disproportionate to the casual touch. He forced himself to keep his attention on the cooking.
“You can stir this while I prepare the vegetables.”
She took his place at the stove with obvious delight, handling the pan with focused attention and barely contained excitement. He watched her from the corner of his eye as he worked, noting how she bit her lower lip in concentration, and how a strand of hair had escaped her braid and curled against her cheek.
Stop,he told himself.Focus.
But it was difficult to focus on anything except her.
“How did you learn to cook?” she asked.
“Necessity. When you travel alone, you either learn or you starve.”
“What about before? When you were with your pack?”
“Occasionally on hunting trips, but I usually brought in the game and others prepared it. Everyone contributed according to their skills.”
