Page 11

I’d be lying if I said I had no idea what made me so exhausted that I could fall into my bed and pass out for four hours in the middle of the day.

I do know—the stress of going to the market, of what’s happening with the Amanzite. The fact that since bringing Kira back to my place, I haven’t been able to get a single second of solid sleep. Lying here in my bed, knowing she was just across the hall from me, was pure torture.

And not just that, but this bone-deep sense that I needed to protect her. Knowing that she wasn’t next to me had me feeling like I needed to be awake, listening for every sound, every creak, to make sure she was okay.

But you can only stay awake for so long before your body just forces you to crash.

Now, I pry my eyes open, still feeling tired but not quite as exhausted, and look around the room. The sun is setting outside, and there’s the strangest smell in the air.

Like onions, peppers. Something savory and rich.

My stomach growls and I force myself to sit up, shaking my head and running a hand through my hair. Am I dreaming still? I don’t remember much of my grandmother before she died, but I’m pretty sure this house has never smelled this good. Not even when she was alive and cooking for us.

Slowly, I stumble to the hall, limbs still waking up.

Walking down the stairs and into the kitchen is like entering one of the sun-drenched scenes in a movie, when the protagonist is remembering the bliss his life once was.

Except this isn’t a memory, or a dream, I realize. Kira Argent is actually standing in front of my stove, humming lightly to herself as she stirs something in a pan. The kitchen is rich with the scent of whatever it is that she’s making, all spice and meat, the heady, thick scent of cheese.

She must be wearing Ash’s dress, because I know she has no other clothes, but there’s no way this dress could ever look like this on my sister.

The top is like a tank top, with thicker straps, dropping low on her back to reveal her skin. The waist cinches in, hugging her curves and showing off her ass, and the hem swishes just above her knees. When she turns to look at me, I catch a line of buttons down the front of the dress, and I itch to undo them, to slide the fabric from her skin.

“Oh,” she says, and then, she does something I haven’t seen from her since she got here. In fact, I haven’t seen it since before we got to high school, back before when we were still kids.

Kira smiles at me.

“You’re up,” she says, tilting her head. “Must have been one heck of a nap.”

I blink at her, throat feeling too swollen to talk. This has to be a dream, but it feels so real, and I can feel the steam from whatever she’s cooking, bubbling away on the stove.

When I look to the left, I can see a tidy stack of brown paper sacks, smoothed out. After a second, I catch something on the sacks that I really don’t like—another man’s scent.

Looking back at her, I growl, “Was someone else here?”

“Delivery guy,” she says simply, grabbing a plate from the cabinet and setting it gently on the counter. When she looks back at me, there’s something close to a twinkle in her eye. “I stopped him at the end of the drive so it wouldn’t wake you up.”

I frown. “You carried the groceries in yourself?”

To my surprise, she laughs as she scoops various things from various pots onto the plates. “Wow, no pleasing you, huh?”

A warm flush moves over my cheeks, and I realize I’m still grappling with whether or not this is real.

Kira Argent, in my kitchen. Cooking for me. Wearing that dress. Smiling at me.

It’s a moment in which I realize I’m getting something I never really knew I wanted, or at least could never put a name to—I want her here.

My mate. Like this, in my home.

And it’s more than the fact that she’s cooking for me, more than how amazing it smells and the fact that I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages.

It’s the way her eyes are lit up, how she moves competently between the stove and the plate. The swift motion of her hand as she slides what I assume is cilantro from a sprig, actually garnishing the dish before bringing it to me.

The pride in the actions. My mate, in my house, doing something that brings her genuine happiness.

Kira sets the plate down in front of me, eyes expectant. I look down at it—a bed of seasoned rice topped with seared flank steak, then a heap of peppers and onions, steam still rising up into the air. Rivulets of white cheese stream down the sides of the food, like lava from a volcano.

“Kira,” I say, voice hoarse as I look back up at her again. “This looks great.”

She continues to stare at me expectantly.

“Oh—” I pick up a fork, realizing she wants to watch me take the first bite. I scoop up some of the food, blow on it for a second, then slide the bite into my mouth.

The intense way her eyes are on me as I chew is almost too much. My body thrums with pleasure—at the food itself, at the fact that she cooked it for me—and I have to resist the urge to stand and take her in my arms.

The vegetables are soft and somehow still fresh, the bright cilantro balancing with the rich cheese. The steak is tender and well-seasoned, and the slightest spice burns pleasantly at the back of my tongue.

“It’s great, Kira,” I manage to say, after swallowing.

“Yeah?” she asks, and for half a second, I think I might actually lose control of myself. The scent of her, her eyes on my lips, her hips in that dress—it’s almost, almost too much.

Then she turns away, and I manage to get myself under control, keeping my ass firmly in my seat. I haven’t even gotten the opportunity to apologize to her for everything—there’s no way she’s going to welcome an advance from me right now, even if she’s extended this olive branch through her cooking.

A second later, I look up in surprise at the sound of a plate gently clinking against the table across from me. Slowly, surely, Kira folds herself into the seat, reaching for a bottle of rosé to the side and topping the two wine glasses in front of us up.

“Thank you,” I say, voice rough.

“You’re welcome.” Once again, she smiles at me, then her eyes dart to the wine glass. “Do you like rosé?”

“I am not picky,” I say, laughing and picking up the glass. “That’s one thing you’ll learn about me, Kira.”

That sentence hangs in the air, and for a moment, I almost pull it back. Why would I say that? When we haven’t talked through anything yet? To imply that she’s going to be getting to know me better?

“That’s good,” she says, not missing a beat. “Because I like to cook a lot of different cuisines. Picky eaters are my pet peeve.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Good to know. Speaking of cooking—how did you get the groceries delivered?”

“I have my credit card number memorized,” she shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, but I see something pass over her expression. Something like grief. “All my things are back at my place—it’s not like they let me pack. I don’t even have a phone.”

“We’ll get you a new one,” I say, sitting up, realizing I’m an ass for not even thinking of it. “You need to replace the stuff in your wallet, too?”

She stares into her glass for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is slightly choked. “Yeah. But the wallet and stuff—that’s not even the worst part. I like to sew, and all my fabric, my antique sewing machine—it’s like all this stuff I thrifted and fixed up. My herb garden, stuff I grew myself, you know? It’s not so easy to replace.”

I watch her as she shrugs again, clearly trying to act like it doesn’t matter to her.

But it does. I glance around the table, looking at the magic she’s made tonight. She deserves to have every single thing back that she’s built for herself.