“Do demons always stare at people while they cook?” I ask without turning around.
“Only when the person cooking is my mate,” he replies calmly.
“That does not make it less unsettling.”
“I disagree.”
I sigh quietly, stirring the pot. The scent of herbs fills the cottage as steam curls toward the rafters. Normally the rhythm of preparing food calms me, but tonight the awareness of himsitting only a few steps away turns every small movement into something strangely self-conscious.
When I finally set two bowls on the table, he leans forward slightly with open curiosity.
“You are feeding me mortal food,” he says thoughtfully.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
I slide into the chair across from him.
“Well, try it before you judge it.”
Threxian studies the bowl for a moment as though evaluating some ancient ritual rather than a simple meal. Then he lifts the spoon and tastes it.
For several seconds he says nothing. My stomach tightens.
“Well?”
His golden eyes lift to mine.
“This is… unexpectedly excellent.”
Relief slips through me before I can hide it.
“That is the most dramatic reaction anyone has ever had to vegetable soup.”
“You underestimate how rarely demons are served dinner.”
“Is this truly your first bowl of soup?”
“No,” he admits. “But it is the first one prepared with the intention of keeping me alive.”
“That is not the intention.”
“Ah,” he says with faint amusement. “Then I misunderstood.”
I watch him take another spoonful. The satisfaction that floods through the link when he enjoys the food surprises me more than anything else that has happened today.
“You like it,” I say.
“A lot.”
“You’re not just being polite?”
“I am many things, Elowen,” he replies dryly. “Polite is rarely one of them.”
I laugh softly. He watches the reaction with quiet interest.
“You should do that more often,” he says.
