Page 7

CHAPTER FIVE

PYRAH

The way Rook looks at me, with such adoration in his demonic red eyes, turns my heart to molten gold. He sees me as something precious to be guarded and protected. If we were back in my cave, I would be tempted to kiss him until kisses stopped being enough.

We aren't alone, however, and his sister interrupts us.

“Put this on.” Lark tosses an apron at Rook.

He catches it out of the air. “Am I making the dough?”

“We need your brute strength,” she says, as if his question is obvious. “The dough needs to be kneaded half to death.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rook all but rolls his eyes at his sister.

Lark glances at me. “Are you good with a knife?”

Her question takes me off guard. “Combat or the kitchen?”

“Kitchen,” she says, with a laugh.

“I’m not much of a cook. I know how to stir a pot of stew.”

“Stew?”

“Back when I worked at the tavern in Quickmire, I burned the bottom of the stew more than once.”

Rook bites back a smile. “Dragons are good at burning things.”

I fail to glare at him and end up laughing instead. “And do you claim to have the skill of a royal cook?”

“I may have picked up a thing or two.”

“Really?”

“When we were children, we slept by the hearth in the castle kitchen.”

“Like servants,” Lark says. “We never even had beds.”

“When I was a servant girl,” I muse, “I liked sleeping by the fire.”

“I’m not surprised,” Rook says. “You seem fond of fire. I will admit, sleeping by the hearth has its benefits. Late at night, I would watch the embers smolder until I fell asleep. And whenever the cook made too many honey cakes, she let me eat the rest.”

Lark snorts. “She made too many on purpose.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Rook kept staring at her like a sweet little puppy.”

It’s impossible not to imagine a baby Rook begging for honey cakes. I flatten my hand above my heart and pretend to swoon over him. “How adorable he must have been.”

Lark pretends to be disgusted. “My brother has always been a terrifying demonspawn, even as a newborn baby.”

Both of us laugh. Rook frowns, trying to remain gruff, but a glint of amusement shines in his eyes.

“Why don’t I watch you cook?” I ask.

He nods. “Excellent idea.”

Lark starts dicing the moonlight chanterelles.

Rook stirs wheat flour and water in a bowl.

My gaze lingers on the muscles in his arms while he kneads the dough.

He works with efficient confidence. I had no idea an apron would look this good on him, but there’s just something attractive about a big, strong man who knows how to cook.

Lark fills a cauldron with water and hangs it over the fire to boil.

Next, she chops an onion into pieces and adds it to an iron skillet heated by red-hot coals.

She tosses a spoonful of butter into the skillet, almost as an afterthought.

The smell of sizzling onions makes my mouth water.

God, that smells delicious already. She adds the moonlight chanterelles next, which release an earthy scent similar to truffles.

“Rolling pin?” Rook asks his sister.

“The drawer behind you. On your left.”

He divides the dough into lumps and rolls each into a small circle.

Once the filling has been cooked, he spoons it into the circles and pinches them into crescent-shaped dumplings.

By the time he’s done, there must be a hundred of them.

He drops the dumplings into the boiling cauldron, cooks them for a few minutes, and then ladles them onto a platter.

Wisps of savory steam rise from the dumplings. My fingers twitch with the temptation to steal a dumpling and stuff it in my mouth, but Rook catches me before I try any kind of thievery.

“Careful,” he warns. “Don’t scald yourself.”

Lark clucks her tongue. “And wait for the mustard!”

“Mustard?” I arch my eyebrows in disbelief. “With mushrooms?”

“In my sister’s defense,” he says, “it’s traditional.”

Rook hoists the platter of dumplings and places it in the middle of the table, like a centerpiece.

Lark brings out an earthen crock of mustard, then plates, goblets, and finally, a bottle of wine.

Rook takes the wine from her and inspects the vintage.

The glass has been stamped with strange markings that must be demonic writing of some sort.

I touch them with my fingertip. “Are those runes?”

“Yes,” he says. “Umbric, the common language of demons.”

“What does it say?”

“Abyssal Estates .” Rook raises his eyebrows at his sister. “Black wine from the Underworld?”

“Of course,” Lark says.

“Fuck, this must have cost a king’s ransom.”

She shrugs at how impressed he sounds. “The Demongate hasn’t been closed forever. This bottle was languishing in some human princeling’s estate for no more than a hundred years.”

“You stole it?”

“No.” She brushes away his comment. “He paid me.”

“I’m not sure I want to ask.”

Lark scoffs with disdain. “For my magic, Rook.”

I’m not sure what else this human princeling could have paid her for, though I suspect it might have something to do with her selling her body. Their mother was the king’s favorite concubine, and in this kingdom, many incubuses and succubuses work at brothels.

I clear my throat. “The Demongate isn’t a legend?”

“It’s not,” Rook says. “It’s how our mother traveled from the Underworld to the Overworld, before the Demongate was closed by order of Queen Dulcamara.” His glowing red eyes burn brighter. “The queen didn’t want any more demons in her kingdom.”

“Too late.” Lark sings out the words and drops into a chair. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Our dinner table is demonic as fuck. We have demon dumplings and demon wine.”

“Don’t forget the demon mustard,” Rook adds.

Lark bares her fangs in a grin. “Let’s eat.”

Rook serves me first, loading my plate with a small mountain of dumplings and filling my goblet with black wine. I spoon a dollop of mustard on the side of my plate, not sure if I will like the taste. Bravely, I dip a dumpling into the mustard before nibbling a bite.

My eyes start watering as soon as it scorches my nose. Damn, that’s hot.

“Spicy,” I rasp.

“Sorry,” Rook says. “I should have warned you.”

I grin despite my stinging eyes. “I like spice.”

Lark lifts her goblet in a toast. “Congratulations, Pyrah, you are now an honorary demon.”

Her words choke my throat with emotion.

I belong here . Belonging isn’t a common feeling for me, but she has welcomed me into her home and into her family.

Not trusting my voice, I return her toast and bring my goblet to my lips.

The rich, dark taste of the wine reminds me of cherries and woodsmoke.

The flavor all but disguises the burn of alcohol.

Rook tilts his head. “Have you had much experience with wine?”

“Never wine,” I admit. “Just some ale.”

Some might be an understatement. I have the ability to drink most men under the table, a talent I discovered while I was working at the tavern and pretending to be a human like them.

“Take it slow,” Rook says. “Black wine is much stronger than ale, particularly that weak piss brewed by humans.”

I shrug. “It takes a lot for me to get drunk.”

“Because you’re a shifter?”

“Yes.” Shifters do heal quickly, thanks to our faster metabolism.

Rook hums low in his throat, a thoughtful sound. “Still, you shouldn’t underestimate demon wine.”

“You’re so sweet when you worry about me.”

“Promise you won’t get drunk and do anything foolish?”

I can’t help smirking. “I can’t make that kind of promise.”

“You will be the death of me, woman.”

He’s joking, of course, but a cold shiver runs down my spine. He shouldn’t joke about death while both of us have bounties on our heads.

Shuddering, I drink to disguise my fears.