Page 7

I bristle at the glint of anticipation in his silver eyes. Everything is a game to him, a dance of veiled words. He seeks to provoke a reaction that will betray my secrets, but I will not oblige.

Holding his gaze steadily, I set my knitting aside. “Enough riddles. If you insist on keeping me from my work, then make yourself useful.” I gesture to the bubbling pot hanging over the stove. “The soup needs tending while I ready the bread.”

With far more enthusiasm than the task warrants, Draven snaps the book shut and saunters to the kitchen. I grind my teeth.You’re only encouraging his pestering, Thorn. Sometimes you’re your own worst enemy.

But I cannot sit idle while that poem’s meaning sinks in. Better to keep busy preparing our meal.

The rich scent of baking bread now laces the cottage air, my empty stomach rumbling in response. Strange, this connection with Draven seems to have increased my appetite threefold.

Crossing to the oven, I slip on a hand towel and pull out the perfectly browned loaf. After all that nonsense working in the nullifying herbs, at least the dough baked up nicely. I inhale deeply, taking comfort in the familiar simplicity of fresh bread.

Behind me, I hear the bubbling hiss of soup spilled across the stove, followed by Draven’s muffled curses. I whirl to find him frantically mopping up splatters of scalding liquid from my worn countertop while clutching his hand.

Despite myself, I have to stifle an exasperated laugh.

“Not accustomed to managing a common hearth fire?” I quip, crossing my arms.

He glowers at me, sucking his scalded fingers with a petulant look. “Pay it no mind. Merely… testing your reflexes.”

I shake my head, lips twitching in a smile. “Here. Run cold water over the burn.”

Draven lets me guide his hand under the pump, leaning closer than necessary so our shoulders brush. Tingles erupt across my skin at the contact. I focus on the cold water rinsing away the angry redness, trying not to notice how pleasantly cool his skin feels against mine.

Get a grip, Thorn. We’re just two people preparing dinner. Nothing out of the ordinary about this at all.

When I glance up, however, Draven is staring at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His eyes seem to bore right through me, as if glimpsing all the secrets I cloak in shadow.

Heat rises in my cheeks. I step back and busy myself slicing thick pieces of the fresh bread.

Focus on the food. Safe, mundane soup and bread. Not the magnetic pull of the man now watching your every move.

Gods, when did this cottage shrink so small?

“You take the bowls. I’ll dish up the soup and bread,” I say briskly, avoiding his gaze.

Draven obediently sets the table while I ladle steaming soup and arrange the bread, studiously keeping my gaze from wandering his way. Just one more meal.Tomorrow, this strange, vexing bond between us will wither away once he departs.

The crust crackles as I cut, and I arrange slices of the freshly baked bread on faded ceramic plates. Wisps of savory steam rise up, making my mouth water.

Draven places worn silverware and chipped bowls on the small wooden table near the fire.

I ladle the hearty vegetable stew, filled with potatoes, carrots, and greens, into each bowl. The chunks of potato soak up the rich broth eagerly.

Draven’s eyes widen as I set the filled bowls down, along with a small crock of fresh butter.

“Please, enjoy,” I say, gesturing for him to dig in. No need to stand on ceremony here in my cozy cottage.

Draven waits until I’ve seated myself across from him before lifting a spoonful of stew to his lips and blowing gently. His eyes drift closed in bliss at the first taste. I hide a smile and duck my head to my own bowl to try the stew.

The broth is fragrant, with pops of flavor from herbs I grew and dried myself. The carrots and potatoes are perfectly tender. I peel flakes of crust from the bread and swirl them through the stew to soak up more of the savory liquid.

Across the table, Draven makes quick work of the stew, pausing to liberally butter a chunk of the bread and take an appreciative bite. I notice a spot of butter cling to his upper lip and have to stifle a laugh. Table manners clearly weren’t a priority in vampire training.

We eat without speaking, the only sounds the crackling fire and the scrape of our spoons on bowls. It’s a simple meal, oddly comforting on this snowy evening. It’s almost like we’re old friends. I blink away the thought. Nope, I can’t let my mind wander like that. He’ll be gone in the morning, and that’s for the best.

I sneak glances at as he enjoys the bread and stew with gusto. The furrow between his brows has smoothed, the set of his mouth relaxed. The nullifying herbs seem to be working, dampening the demand of our unwanted bond.

Soon, we will be strangers once more. As it should be.