“Problems, spitfire?” His deep voice rolls over me.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. I’m not even surprised he’s here. Three days isn’t nearly enough time for things to go back to normal.
“Are you on your period?” he asks gently.
I drop my hands, ready to yell at him, or burst into tears, I don’t know which. Except his gaunt face stops me. His dull black eyes don’t seem to be able to focus. Yet there’s a compassion in their depths I’ve rarely seen before in others. I didn’t really think about demons being able to feel things like sympathy. Especially while they’re suffering like Dimitri clearly is.
“What happened to you?” I ask, though the words come out soft and slightly pathetic—not concerned. Definitely not.
He gives me a half-hearted smile as he crouches in front of me. “Nothing a nap won’t fix. You?”
I could lie. Or say the banishing words to get him to go away again. Hell, ignoring him would probably do the trick. He reminds me of a puppy, eager to please and hyperactive until you rebuff them. Then they hide with their tails between their legs. For some reason, I can’t do it.
“Headache,” I murmur, then wince as the edges of his body blur. I don’t know if it’s my vision or some demon-y thing. Demonic? Demon-y? Is that even a word? I dig my knuckles into my temples and wait for the pulsing to subside.
“Seems more like a migraine. It’s sucked all the fire right out of you, huh?” He pushes to his feet and peers into the pot. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, then hums as he exhales. “I’m not one to invite myself to dinner, but I have a feeling you’ll break something if you’re left to your own devices.”
I roll my eyes, then squeeze them shut. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
When I peek at him, he’s swirling the ladle around. “I’m sure you are, spitfire.”
“Why the hell are you calling me that? I have a fucking name, you know.”
“Except you haven’ttoldme your name. And while I could call you witch, like you call me demon, it’s a bit demeaning to strip you down to the magic inside you.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I mumble something evenIcan’t understand. It’s halfway between an excuse and an apology. He lifts his hand while still leaning over the pot. I swear if he gets any closer, he’ll stick his nose right in and snort the soup. If he ruins it, I just might cry. I can’t take one more setback.
He snaps his fingers, and I grimace. Such a small sound shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. A bowl appears in his hand, and he hums a happy tune as he dishes himself some herby goodness. I drop my chin to my chest, bracing myself to push to my feet. I should tell him to get the fuck out. Except I already dismissed that idea. At least I think I did. My head hurts too much to remember.
“Up you get,” he murmurs, and his hands slide under my arms. I don’t even have it in me to care.
“I can?—”
“I know you can. Doesn’t mean you will. You can banish me after some soup. Because if you do it before I get to taste it, I just might cry.”
He tries to guide me toward the small breakfast nook, but my feet won’t work. Maybe I am cursed. I know magic demands a cost. It was hammered into us by our aunt since we were young. Except I’m not supposed to be the one suffering. Maybe that’s why Dimitri looks so gaunt. I don’t know if demons take on the magical burden when shit goes sideways. I’d ask him, but I’m afraid I’ll puke all over the floor, and I doubt he’d clean it up.
He scoops me up, and a strangled cry leaves me. He shushes me like I’m a child throwing a tantrum. By the time I open my mouth to cuss him out, he’s already settled me in the chair and whisked away. A bowl appears in front of me, and the sweet scent wafts through the air. I inhale, letting the familiar smell comfort me.
“Well shit,” he breathes, and I glance up. Dimitri’s wasted no time digging into the soup, and he’s too preoccupied to notice my attention.
I drop my gaze to my own bowl and gather my spoon. Only his occasional muttered exclamations and the utensils hitting the ceramic punctuate the silence that settles between us. I probably should be more freaked out. Or worried he’s about to eat me. Instead, there’s a sense of calm I haven’t felt since I discovered my sister missing. I’ll chalk it up to the food and the migraine.
“I didn’t realize you could eat human food,” I murmur, and his spoon clatters into the empty bowl.
“Now why would you ruin a perfectly good meal with that question?” He scowls at me, then shakes his head.
“For once, I wasn’t trying to be offensive,” I snap, though my ire is muted.
He rolls his eyes, then stomps his way to the pot to refill his bowl. “Weren’t you taught about demons? Thought witches had training and books and all that.”
He drops into the chair once more and immediately inhales the food. I almost point him in the direction of a measuring cup but stop myself.
“We’re not friends,” I mumble. “We don’t need to have a heart-to-heart. Just eat your soup and then you can leave.”
He tilts his head back and forth. “Or…”
“No, noor. We’re just going to eat in silence, then go our separate ways. You should be grateful I’m feeding you in the first place. Actually, you should be grateful my body hates me and I can’t fight back.”
