Page 77 of Balance

“It still counts,” Miles called after him.

“What do you have?” I asked, sitting on my knees beside the witch. I pulled at one of the bundles. “What’s in here?”

“Jerky,” Miles answered, and my heart sank.

I swore to God, the last thing in the world I’d wanted at the moment was more dried meat.

“I can tell by your expression Titus has been feeding you from his personal stash,” Miles sighed, pulling out a pocketknife and cutting into an onion. The pot was already warming over the fire, with a second ready to go beside it. “Don’t worry,” Miles continued. “I have the good stuff. There’s also herbs, potatoes, and some food bars in there too.”

Despite having made fun of the ramen, Miles had stolen from the stash and had four packets of beef-flavored noodles stacked beside his knee. Since he’d asked Damen to get water, it was obvious he planned on using them. “What are you making?”

“Pho.” He dropped the sliced onion into the pot. It was followed, an instant later, by two handfuls of jerky.

Then he paused, glancing at Julian. “Do you want any?”

“I’m fine,” Julian said, shrugging, scooting over on the log as Titus flopped into a seat next to him. “I’ll just eat a meal bar.”

Miles rolled his eyes before pulling an apple out of his bag, tossing it at the necromancer. “Stop embarrassing yourself,” he said, returning his attention to the pot. “You’ll need more than just that.”

That’s right, Julian was a vegetarian. That explained why he’d been watching Titus with distaste any time he gnawed on his meat.

“Thanks…” Julian muttered, mood still mellow and cautious, but he accepted the apple nonetheless.

I didn’t even realize I’d been inching toward them until Damen returned with the water, dropping the container into Miles’s hands and taking a seat on a flat stone on our side of the fire. He seemed mesmerized, watching Miles’s movements as he completed the most rudimentary tasks, such as pouring water over caramelized onions.

While Miles worked in silence, and Julian and Titus sat in relaxed, yet fragile, peace, Damen appeared perplexed.

“Can’t you cook?” I asked him, noting the way his gray eyes seemed to follow Miles’s every movement. But it was just ramen noodles, albeit with a twist. But still.

Damen jumped, his elbow slipping off his knee, and his vision tore from the fire. “Yes.” His voice was curt, and he was not able to hold my gaze. “What would make you think I can’t?”

“He can’t,” Julian said in between a bite, focusing on the flames. “He’s horrendously bad at it.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I argued. “If you can taste food, you can cook.”

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Miles interrupted. “But that doesn’t affect you much anyway. You’ve always been rather good at it.”

“Thanks!” My face heated despite myself; to have such belief in me, even before I’d had a chance to make anything for him. That was something special. “Finn likes my cooking.”

“You cooked for Finn?”

I’d expected the statement—and the look of horror—from Julian, but not from Damen. Yet it was Damen who was now staring at me, mouth opened, and Damen who was unsuccessfully fighting against the growing redness as it creeped its way up his neck.

“Yes…” I inched closer to Miles, noticing that he was the only one completely at peace at my admission. In fact, the only indication he’d even heard me was the slight incline of his head, only once, before he ripped open the packets and put the dried noodles into the boiling water.

“Who cares what happened in the past?” Miles interrupted the others before they could even respond. “Stop bothering her about it. That was very nice of you to do, Bianca,” he added, inching over. There was space next to him now, and he gestured to me. “Do you want to come help?”

“Okay…” Anything to distract from the suddenly tense atmosphere. “What can I do?”

He pressed the wooden spoon in my hand, instructing me to stir the soupy contents as he poured the beef flavor packets into the water. Then, surprisingly, he added two other ingredients.

“Is that ginger and basil?” I asked, studying the shredded additions.

“Yes,” he said, taking the spoon from me as he stirred the soup in a clockwise motion.

“You carry those around with you?”

Miles grunted, removing the pot from the fire even as he reached back and gestured toward the other pouches. “I have thyme, rosemary, elderberries, and there’s a jar of witch hazel in my bag too.”