Page 107
He chuckled. “You’ve turned into a domestic queen.”
“Laugh all you want. I think it suits me.” I took his free hand and drew him against my chest. “It made you smile. That’s all that matters. You’ve been sullen lately.”
“Some.” He cut his gaze to the wine, his humor fading.
“Is it your mother?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
He didn’t answer right away, so I brushed my nose along his cheek and kissed his temple. “Come on, Ensley. Talk to me. What other things?”
“You.” I half expected the answer, so I remained quiet, embracing him as he continued. “I know you’re working on a plan to extract your uncle from that… underground whatever it is. And I know you’ll go behind my back to do it, risks be damned.”
“It’s not your war. Why would I put you in danger?”
“See? I’m right. You’re in more danger than I am. They’re vampire hunters.”
Sighing, I gave his hand a tug. “Come eat.” I guided him to the table. The conversation was too heavy. We’d discussed my position numerous times, and he wouldn’t change my mind. The last thing I wanted was to upset him.
When Ensley observed the single place setting and the food, whatever irritation he felt at my avoidance vanished. A wide grin filled his face.
“Is that poor man’s beef stroganoff?”
“Yes. Or, rather, that was the intent. I hope it resembles what you’ve had in the past. I’m hopeless when it comes to choosing spices for seasoning, so I stuck with the basics. Salt and pepper.”
My research had suggested fresh garlic or garlic powder, but that wasn’t an option, so if it was lacking in flavor, I could hardly be blamed. I’d asked Ensley to dispose of all garlic a week ago, since my sensitive nose picked up traces, no matter how faint. Garlic could have a paralyzing effect in large quantities. Even trace amounts could petrify my muscles.
“Poor man’s beef stroganoff isn’t supposed to be fancy.”
“Good. Sit. Try it.”
He sat and filled his fork by stabbing the noodles. I hovered by his side, waiting for the verdict. His first bite left me on the edge of my seat. He chewed for several long seconds before tipping his head back on a groan.
I beamed.
“This is so freaking good. Holy shit. I’m eight years old again.”
Encouraged, I took a seat caddy corner and propped my chin in my upturned palm to watch.
Ensley ate with gusto, shoveling food into his face between moans of pleasure. Observing his excitement and the delight he took in the simple meal satisfied a century-long yearning for the foods I could no longer enjoy.
Halfway through the large serving, Ensley slowed and set his fork aside to indulge in a sip of wine. He eyed me skeptically over the glass’s rim. “Don’t think I didn’t catch your clever diversion.”
“You’re an intelligent man. It would be foolish to think I deceived you. I wanted a reprieve from the same argument we’ve had numerous times.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re going tonight?”
“Strictly reconnaissance. Nothing more.”
“Are you strong enough?”
“Yes.”
“It’s been over a week. Cristofer said—”
“Cristofer isn’t the authority on feeding schedules. What works for me doesn’t work for him.”
