Caitlyn blinked at me a few times before her lips curved into a small, surprised smile. “You know what? That actually makes a lot of sense, Blaise.”
I couldn’t help the way my chest lifted at that. Impressing my mate—even accidentally—felt good. So what if my sexual rhythm was all over the place? I’d just have to rely on my mind until we figured the rest out. All I needed now was another suitably profound observation to pull out at the right moment.
The rich aroma of hot cocoa drew us the rest of the way into the kitchen.
Caitlyn came to an abrupt halt at the threshold, so suddenly I nearly collided with her back. Peering over her shoulder, I immediately saw why.
The kitchen was immaculate.
The tiles gleamed beneath the candlelight, and the pots and pans hanging above the butcher’s block shone with a warm, coppery glow. Caitlyn’s cauldrons had all been magicked back inside—the ones she’d been working on sat on the counter, stirring rods swirling gently through their contents, while the finished ones were stacked upside down beside the sink, freshly washed.
Her ingredients had been returned to their proper places, the pantry door standing open to reveal rows of spotless jars filled with foodstuffs and potion components.
And overseeing it all—perhaps most unsettling of all—stood Creep.
She balanced atop a chair beside the stove, carefully stirring the pan of cocoa, her gaze fixed on the task with unnerving focus.
“Thank you, Creep,” Caitlyn said, her tone cautious.
There was a softpop, and two mugs appeared on the table. Creep’s glassy eyes fluttered as the saucepan lifted itself from the burner and bobbed its way over, pouring steaming cocoa neatly into each mug. A heartbeat later, a jar in the pantry poppedopen, and a stream of marshmallows burst free, looping around Caitlyn, then me, before plopping into our drinks like we were princesses trapped in some bizarre, haunted Disney montage.
Wait—no. I’d be the prince. Caitlyn was the princess.
Except... I didn’t exactly fit the classic Disney-prince blueprint. It’s not like I’d rescued her from anything. If anything, when we eventually sat down and hadthe talk, she’d probably decide I was about as far from Prince Charming as it was possible to get.
“Blaise?” Caitlyn’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“Huh?”
“I asked if you were okay. You were just kind of staring into space there.”
I blinked, realizing Caitlyn had already moved to the cauldrons, her mug of cocoa in hand as she inspected the contents.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. Just got lost in a thought,” I said, grabbing my own cup.
Caitlyn leaned over one of the cauldrons, sniffing thoughtfully before setting her mug aside. She cast a careful glance at Creep, then popped open the jar of rue and tipped in a generous amount. The potion sputtered in protest, but instead of alarm, a wide grin spread across Caitlyn’s face, as if that reaction was exactly what she’d been hoping for.
I sucked in a breath. “I’m going to... uh, explore the house while you brew.” I hesitated, the words catching in my throat before I forced them out. “And maybe—when you’re done—we could have a little chat.”
Then, like the coward I was, I retreated from the kitchen before Caitlyn could answer, fleeing into the depths of the house to collect my thoughts.
Chapter 17. Ambrose
Since Priscilla’s arrival, the couch had become my assigned living quarters.
I told myself it was temporary. That Isadora simply needed space to focus, and that sharing her room—even the floor at her feet—was a step we weren’t quite ready to take yet.
But the couch made it hard to obey the voice in my head—the one that sounded like Isadora. The one that hissed:
Stay where you are. Stay out of my business until I call for you. Don’t speak. Don’t be seen. Don’t be a nuisance.
It was difficult to follow, given the couch sat in a central stretch of the house, barely a few yards from the spell room Isadora had dragged her daughter into. Every time her heels struck the floorboards, I found myself curling inward without thinking, folding into myself in a half-conscious attempt to disappear.
I spent most of the evening with my knees drawn to my chest, hoping the backrest of the couch was enough to hide as much of me from Isadora as possible. The effort was mostly futile. The couch was a two-seater, and I stood just over six and a half feet tall. No matter how tightly I curled in on myself, some part of me always poked out.
It wasn’t all bad, though. The fetal position helped, at least a little, with the hunger cramps that had reached an almost excruciating level.
My stomach gurgled constantly now—an ever-present reminder of how long it had been since I’d fed—and I wondered, distantly, just how many days I had left, or if I even had days left at all. The grumbling sounds of starvation had been enough to crack Priscilla’s hardened gaze, but only for a millisecond.
