Page 17 of Beware of Hodags

“What are we eating exactly?” I ask, feeling my salivary glands leak at just the use of a food-related word. “Not that I’m picky. I’m suddenly starving.”

“This one’s a deer sausage spinach quiche,” Shepard says, gesturing to the one that’s done and cooling on top of the stove. “I made it myself,” he says proudly. “The one warming up right now is a rhubarb meringue. I didn’t make that one because meringues are tricky.”

“They are,” I agree, happy because when he was making the switch a second ago, I thought I spied a pillowy white confection clouding over the pie tin—and I love meringue.

“But I’ve got a French rhubarb if you want that instead,” Shepard is saying. “I should have asked.”

I join him at the stove and lean against his side, enjoying how solid he is. “I’m intrigued.” I slide my arm around his back. “What’s the difference?”

“The French is a crisp. Oatmeal, butter, brown sugar. The Mennonite girls at the store warned me that a meringue isn’t as good if you freeze it, but I’ve frozen a bunch from them and if there’s any loss in quality, I’ve got zero complaints. Soooo good.”

“I would never turn down either pie but I’ll happily mow down a meringue. Thanks.”

Shepard nods and with an endearing amount of reluctance he pulls away from me to head for the fridge, only to stop.

In the appliance’s stainless steel reflection, I can make out his sad face.

“Shoot. When I know I’ll be here, I usually buy the basics.

I didn’t do that, so we don’t have sour cream or anything for the quiche. ”

I shrug. “Eh. We’ll make do.”

“You’re a doll. Would you grab us some plates? Far left top.” He opens a drawer and pulls out a knife and silverware. He’s cutting into the quiche when I join him with two plates.

I peer around his arm, sniffing. “What kind of cheese is in that?”

His eyes flash to mine, impassioned. “It’s the world’s best Blue Stilton. Whoever wields this factory’s cheese iron knows what they’re doing. There’s so much mold marbled in the—”

My eyes are bugging out. “Blue cheese?”

He blinks at me. “Yeah. It’s good.”

“You made a blue cheese spinach quiche? That has to be illegal!”

His brows raise, his expression turning lofty. “Guess I’m going to quiche prison.” His shrug is evident in his voice. He turns to our meal and resumes cutting.

“You should go to quiche prison,” I gripe. “I can’t believe you baked blue cheese and spinach together on purpose.”

“With deer sausage,” he reminds me. “And I’d do it again.”

I shake my head in mock disgust. “Quiche prison doesn’t even sound bad. You need a more serious punishment.”

He turns to me, holding up the knife with a cube of custardy steaming quiche balanced on the blade. “Try it.” He blows on it to cool it down .

I may not be a fan of blue cheese, but it does smell bizarrely good.

I pluck it from the knife and pop it in my mouth.

My eyes squeeze shut as the greasy cheese slides over my tongue and fills my mouth with a salty, nutty flavor.

There’s spinach and egg in there too, and yeah, a little chunk of venison sausage—but this cheese.

Shepard sets a glass of water down in front of me. “How do you like it?”

I swallow, then take a moment to lick behind my molars and sweep away the parts of it that are still clinging and lurking. And pungent. “It tastes like the milk room floor of a dairy barn.”

Shepard barks out a laugh.

“It does,” I insist.

Chuckling, he closes his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me in for a quick kiss. “It has a barnyard note,” he allows.

I scoff.

“We can order pizza,” he says, nuzzling me.

“No,” I say, pulling away enough for us to focus on each other. “I didn’t say it tasted bad.”

He huffs out a laugh. “All that whining and you liked it?” He bends and closes his teeth over the skin of my neck. He pinches me. With his teeth!

My knees wobble. I grip his shoulders to keep myself upright. “Uh, your quiche is weirdly compelling,” I manage breathily. “A little strong… but not bad.”

“It is strong,” he agrees with pride and lets me go in favor of divvying up the quiche.

We transfer the quiche to the table, take our seats, pray, and dig in.

***

“That was disturbingly good,” I declare. “But,” I add, “obviously that’s thanks to the venison and not the wilder cheese choice.”

Shepard nods affably. “Of course.”

“Only a psychopath would cook up a concoction like that,” I insist.

“That’s why I’ve been sentenced to quiche prison,” he quips. He’s been making liberal use of the napkins he brought to the table and he swipes one under his lip, cleaning his beard yet again.

His phone goes off, and he hops up to pull out the rhubarb pie. “Ope,” he murmurs.

Eyes appreciatively glued to his broad back, which he’s showing off to perfection in a snug white undershirt (he took off his flannel a few minutes ago), I ask, “What?”

“Browned it a little more than I normally do.” He plucks off his oven mitts, which are shaped like bear paws and even have paw pad-shaped grippies with silicone claws on the insides.

Embroidered on each one are the words Using My BEAR HANDS.

He brings the pie right to the table, piping hot.

He tosses down a hot pad and plops the pie on it, then sends me an arch look.

“‘Spose I’ll probably end up in meringue prison now.”

“Which sounds much rougher,” I agree.

“And like it’s in France,” he muses, dragging a knife through the pie. “It’ll need a minute to cool but let me get you a new plate.”

“Nahhh.” I pat the rim of mine with my fingertips. “I don’t need a new one. The moldy cheese spinach quiche with deer bits didn’t stick to it.”

“Just for that?” Shepard reaches for my plate, brings it up to his mouth, and drags his tongue over the surface. He sets it down. “Cleaned it for you.”

I bark out a laugh. “Thanks a lot!”

And for what it’s worth, the meringue is delicious. Maybe especially with the slight hodag flavor.

We’ve finished eating (Shepard gave me two slices of pie and cut a respectable slice for himself) and I’m licking my spoon clean when Shepard clears his throat and asks, “Do you want to play cards, or maybe watch some TV?”

Setting my silverware down, I shake my head. “No.”

“Okay.” He pushes back his chair, getting to his feet. Sliding his flannel back on—but forgoing the buttons, almost like he knows I want to look at him—he pulls me up from mine and kisses me on the forehead. “I’ll let you get some rest.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, but he starts to take a step back.

“You’re leaving?” I ask.

He stops, leaning back to look at me. “Do you want me to stay?”

Petting his beard, I stare into his eyes. “I do. But I don’t want to play cards with you or watch TV.”

His pupils swallow his irises. “What do you want to do with me?”

Taking his hand, I start to lead him down the hall. Then my footsteps stall as it occurs to me to wonder if I should take him to the room I claimed, or to his .

Shepard’s face is suddenly pressed against my hair. His voice is a husky suggestion behind my ear. “My room.”

Emboldened by this, I tug on his hand and resume leading him. When I reach his room, I flick on the light and pull him inside. When we're standing in the middle of the room I tell him, “Strip.”

He drops my hand and yanks off his flannel, tossing it away in almost the same motion as he peels up his undershirt, flinging it to the floor.

He starts in on his jeans, working the buttons and zipper like getting them off means life or death, but as he does he looks over at me.

“Are you just going to stand there and watch?”

“Yep,” I confirm, biting back a cheeky smile.

Making a noise in the back of his throat, he shoves his jeans down his thighs, bends to push them past his knees and kicks out of them like they’re on fire—and he does this while staring me in the face.

Heaving out a breath through his nose, he straightens, and then he’s standing in front of me in nothing but his boxer briefs which are plain gray and have a sort of pouch sewn into the front panel, which he’s filling— rampantly. I start when he rasps, “Your turn.”

I’m strangling the cuffs of my sleeves with my fingers. When I realize it, I force my fingertips to spread across the fronts of my thighs. “Is it okay with you if I keep my shirt on?”

In the action of reaching for me, Shepard hesitates, clearly torn. “Whatever makes you comfortable, Rach.” After a pause he pulls back, fisting his hands, seeming to read my nerves as fear.

I’m not afraid. I’m apprehensive. And terribly self-conscious.

I try to focus on Shepard instead of myself, and it helps.

His body is so solid. His shoulders and chest are broad.

His uniquely colored chest hair covers his pecs, forms a line for an inch or two down his midsection, then spreads across his abdomen, hinting at plush coverage behind his boxer briefs .

Excited by the sight of him and his maleness, encouraged to get a bit more naked, my hands go to the band of my leggings. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

“What exactly are we doin—” Shepard starts at almost the same time he slaps the back of his own head.

Firmly, he states, “I’m up for anything you want to do.

” His eyes are glued to the progress of my leggings being pushed down my legs.

“But, uh,” he says, dazed as he stares fixated at my skin being bared, “I need to warn you about something.”

I’ve sunk down, my hands gripping a handful of my leggings on either side of my ankles. At his concerning words, I pause and ask, “Warn me about what?”

Shepard’s gaze darts up to mine. “Hodag shifters have… My…” His eyes search each of mine as he seems to grapple with something. Finally, he spits out, “My dick has spikes.”