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“We couldn’t find a better name for him, and he looked like a Finn!” She sounds embarrassed.

“I’m sure he did.”

“It’s true!”

“I’m not saying it isn’t.”

She slides off the stool. “Aargh! You’re so frustrating.”

As she storms to the other side of the cabin, I look over my shoulder at her, confused. What did I say? I just agreed with her. Did she not want me to agree with her?

I start throwing things together, turning on the stove and grabbing a pot. I wasn’t lying to Maya when I told her that my mother was the one who taught me how to cook. My mother wasn’t a royal. She wasn’t even a noble. She was a chef at a local restaurant when my father met her. They weren’t fated mates, but my father fell for her, and despite her initial resistance, he won her over. However, throughout her mating to my father, my mother never lost her love for cooking. And when my brother and I were young, she would bring us into the kitchen and teach us the basics. Erik didn’t pay much attention, although he did pick up a few things. He was more interested in fighting and sparring with the soldiers. I enjoyed that, too, but the time spent with my mother was equally important to me.

I found cooking to be relaxing after a grueling day of lessons and training. Since I was the oldest, I was the heir; and as the heir, I was always busy with something or other. These moments spent with my mother were the only times I could unwind.However, once she passed, following my father’s death, and I became king, I no longer had time to focus on anything but the kingdom.

I pause. This is the first time I’ve cooked anything since my mother died. A heavy sadness and a wave of nostalgia wash over me. If she were here, she would be throwing instructions at me, tasting things and adding more spices.

By the time I’m done, Maya is leaning against the wall, dozing off. I wonder if she sulked herself into a nap or was simply tired.

Setting the food down before her, I fetch another plate and take a moment to look around the place. The furnishings are sparse. No bed, just a futon in the corner. There is no other furniture aside from what is in the kitchen. No table or chairs. It seems to be a place to sleep, cook, and eat. I have a feeling that the witch is not going to be happy about our intrusion.

“Maya.” I touch her cheek lightly, marveling at how soft her skin is. “It’s time to eat. You must be hungry.”

She mumbles something in her sleep and tries to bat my hand away. But I’m quite firm.

“Wake up.”

Reluctantly, her eyes flutter open, filled with sleep. “What?”

“Eat,” I repeat.

Her drowsy gaze lowers to the food in front of her: a soft stew, which will be easy on the stomach.

She yawns. “Did you really make this?” Picking up the bowl, she sniffs it in a manner that would make me feel insulted if I weren’t so entertained by the sight. “It smells decent enough,” she declares, and the corner of my lips tugs upward.

“Maybe you should try it,” I suggest, and I watch her take a spoonful. Her eyes widen slightly.

With her mouth full, she fans herself because she didn’t consider how hot it would be. When she swallows, she stares at me, stunned. “This is really good. You’re a great cook.”

I give her a small smile. “Eat.”

As I consume my own food, my hair keeps falling over my shoulder. I never kept my hair long. I found it bothersome. Unlike Erik, who inherited our mother’s dark hair, I have my father’s silver hair. I always kept it short, so for it to have grown this much, I figure I must have been in that place for years.

“Your hair is bothering you,” Maya observes. “Do you want me to cut it?”

She wants to cut my hair? I give her an odd look, wondering if she knows what she’s offering.

She immediately interprets my expression as a lack of confidence in her skills. “I can cut hair. I’ve cut Finn’s for years. You just want it short, right?”

She doesn’t understand, I realize.

I set down my bowl, my lips curving ever so slightly. “Yes. I would appreciate it.”

Chapter Four

Dr. Maya Sorin

Griffin is quiet and reserved, and he speaks in an oddly formal manner, but I like him. I’m usually prone to rambling when I’m feeling nervous, but he actually pays attention to what I say. The way he focuses on me when I’m speaking has knots forming in my stomach. Last night when I woke up, he was quiet and unwilling to talk. Now, though, he seems to be more than willing to engage with me.