Page 12 of Bitten & Burned

Five

THE SHAPE OF HALEMONT

Kravenspire, Sol, Verdune

The manor was waking.

Soft thuds overhead, a door closing somewhere down the hall, the hiss and click of the library lamps warming to life. I’d heard it all before—many times—but tonight it sounded different. Less like the start of a visit, more like the start of my life here.

Fig sat in my lap, tail flicking toward the door as if he knew who might appear first. I smoothed my skirts, pretending I was ready for conversation. I wasn’t. Not yet.

Being here for a few nights at a time was easy—you could float in and out, a welcome disruption. But living here would mean finding a place in the structure they’d already built, and I wasn’t sure where I fit.

Fig stretched and hopped down, heading for the door with an expectant meow. My stomach answered for me with a growl. The kitchen, then.

I tied my hair back into a loose bun, splashed water on my face, and followed him out into the corridor. The hush of the day was giving way to the low hum of voices and footsteps as the others stirred.

The scent of baking bread and something faintly spiced drifted toward me as I rounded the corner. Anton was in the kitchen.

I could smell everything: Coffee, rich and dark. Cherries, sugar, caramel. My mouth watered. Then, finally, on the tail end of it all, another scent I sucked greedily into my nose. They all meshed together until I couldn’t tell what made my mouth water more.

Tuberose. Sandalwood. Vanilla.

Anton.

I lingered in the doorway and peered inside. He was there—sleeves rolled up past his elbows, skin appearing golden in the lamplight. His arms, strong and supple, were gripping a rolling pin as he coaxed a sheet of puff pastry into submission.

Anton was wearing his usual: a stark white cotton shirt, unbuttoned to his breastbone, dark trousers, tailored precisely to fit in such a way that one couldn’t help but stare. And today, he had on an apron over the whole lot, accentuating his narrow waist.

In short, he was a gorgeous man. The sort that Thalia and I would have spotted and fanned ourselves over. The sort who never noticed someone like me, and yet, he still seemed to.

As far as I knew, Anton was turned the youngest out of all the vampires of the coven, at age twenty-one. But he was the second eldest, after Cassian.

With a surname like Mercier, I had to assume he came from wine country; likely outside of Sol, closer to Euraline and the Emerald Sea.

He hummed an old tune under his breath. “Come on now…” he murmured. “Behave for me.” He smiled as the dough stuck to the pin and his fingers anyway.

He glanced up, as if now sensing me in the doorway. His smile widened into a grin. “Good evening, mon chou. So glad to finally see you.”

“You saw me last night, Anton,” I reminded him, trying not to blush.

“Yes, but I saw you with everyone else, Darling. You know I like a little one-on-one with my favorite witch.”

“Not so much a witch these days,” I grumbled.

“Oh, I am certain you will figure something out, ma p’tite. Come now, you must be famished. Don’t worry, I have just the thing.”

He reached for a towel, gesturing with one floury hand towards a stool just across from him before he began wiping them.

“Do you like cherries? I made chaussons aux cerises. Just for you, I suppose I should have asked Vael if you prefer another fruit, but the sweet and sour cherries made me think of you…” He paused.

“You do like cherries, don’t you, Rowena? ”

“I do,” I replied, realizing I had yet to answer him. I was still staring at his hands. “Peaches are my absolute favorite, but I do love cherries.”

“Peaches, you say? I must remember that.” He seemed to notice the way I was looking at him because he smiled in that pompous way he had, preening slightly even as he washed at the sink.

Over exaggerating the motions of rubbing on soap and rinsing.

Drying. He didn’t bother unrolling his sleeves before placing a plate in front of me.

Tiny pastries, puffed beautifully, with varying red and burgundy cherries peeking out. “I used Montmorency and Raniers,” he said softly, his voice low and barely above a whisper. “One is sour, one is sweet. Like you.”

“How do you know I’m sweet?” I asked, bringing my eyes up to his, trying and failing not to get lost in the deep blue. “I feel mostly sour.”

His brows softened slightly, and he let his chin rest in one of his hands, elbow braced on the table.

“Because, you may not realize it, but there are hints of sweetness. That’s what makes for a delectable pastry, you know.

The right ratio of sweetness to sour. You can’t have too much of one, or it overpowers. You want both.”

He picked one of the pastries from the plate, holding it out to me. “Have a bite. Tell me what you think.”

I burned. Not in my wound, but deeper. Not at all unpleasantly.

I leaned forward, taking a small bite from the end of the pastry.

“Take a bigger one than that, Rowena,” Anton grinned. “You barely got anything at all. I want your honest opinion.”

I leaned forward again and took a bigger bite. Flavors flooded my tongue. Tart and sweet, they married beautifully on a flaky, buttery pastry. It all blended, making me moan as I chewed and swallowed.

“Really?” Anton asked, his eyebrows raising playfully. “And on the first try, too.”

I leaned back. “It’s good,” I said, realizing there was no way to save this, but I preferred to try rather than not.

He chuckled. “I’ll be sure to make note of that. ‘It’s good,’ such high praise. I prefer the first reaction.” He popped the rest of the pastry into his mouth and chewed.

“Oh, wow. Sometimes I surprise myself,” he said, swallowing. “Now, that’s enough dessert, you get more if you’re a good girl and eat your breakfast. Would you like eggs? An omelette? Au fromage et… champignons?”

I frowned slightly.

“Mushrooms. And cheese,” he repeated.

“I know what fromage is, Anton,” I said with a laugh.

“Well, you didn’t know champignons, so you realize I must cover my bases.”

“Just say mushrooms.”

“Why, when champignons is a much more beautiful word? And now you know what they are? Although you haven’t said you want them yet. Do you?”

I nodded. “And ketchup.”

“Ketch—ketchup?” He looked alarmed. “Ketchup is… You do not need ketchup for this dish.”

“I know, but I like ketchup on my eggs.”

He made a face, shaking his head. “That sounds positively vile.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I said with a laugh. “Besides, Vael makes me eggs with ketchup. No complaints.”

“Yes, well, no offense to your scholar, but he does not have the refined palate I do. He prefers a Cabernet over all other red wines. No matter what you are drinking it with. He has no taste for fine cuisine… well…” He looked at me, his eyes heated. “Perhaps some taste.”

“Anton…” I said, smirking as I leaned back. “You flirt too much.”

“Bah, I flirt the perfect amount,” he countered, licking the rest of the pastry from his fingers. “Keeps you blushing, your face turns a beautiful shade of pink I don’t see anywhere else.” He took another cherry and popped it in his mouth.

It was alarming, the first time I’d seen a vampire eat human food. I had naively thought, alongside most others, that vampires had to drink only blood. Until I’d spent a few nights with Vael.

I’d woken up once to him stirring sugar into a teacup.

Taking a bite of a jam-slathered piece of toast, he’d looked at me, mid-bite, and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up the crumbs.

” As if that was what had me looking so alarmed.

It wasn’t that he was eating in bed; it was that he was eating at all.

He’d explained to me later that vampires do eat human food.

In fact, sometimes, they crave it. But it provides nothing.

No sustenance, no satisfaction, only scratching an itch or a food craving.

He wasn’t sure what happened to it, because there were a few other human functions vampires did not partake in, if you catch my drift, but only that it allowed them to seamlessly blend into live society, not outing themselves as cursed so quickly.

Wine, however, seemed to give the same effects as it had while living, if a bit muted.

I watched now, as Anton lifted a teacup to his lips, sipping at the rim before returning it to the saucer.

He’d just poured my omelette into the pan alongside the sauteed mushrooms. He sprinkled cheese, then shook the pan to fold the omelette. Minutes later, he’d plated it, skipping the garnish in favor of sliding me the ketchup bottle beside the plate.

“Gods, I don’t know if I can watch this,” he said, watching anyway as I dribbled ketchup over the entire omelet before tucking into it. “Vile woman,” he teased.

“Try some.”

He wrinkled his nose, but opened his mouth, and I fed him some. He chewed, swallowed, and sighed. “It’s not bad. Don’t tell anyone you heard me say that.”

I finished my omelette and accepted a cup of tea. Earl Grey. I added my own cream and sugar, and Anton watched as if he were memorizing it.

Afterward, I sipped at my tea while Anton cleaned the pan.

“You don’t have to cook for me, you know,” I said carefully, my tone measured and calm.

“No. But I want to. I like to. You should have nice things, Rowena.”

“I do,” I insisted.

“Yes, but you should have more. You should have all you desire. Food is something I can offer. Would you take that away from me? Besides, no one here has a sweet tooth like you and me. I can’t prepare desserts for only myself. Do you know how utterly sad that appears?”

I laughed. “Okay, well, it does seem silly of me to complain… when everything you prepare is delectable.”

He hummed. “See, I like that as well.”

“What?” I asked.

“The way you praise me. It’s nice. Don’t you agree?”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. What exactly was he asking?

I couldn’t detect an undercurrent of anything salacious, but something inside me made it feel salacious. I wondered if that was his intention.