Page 51 of Taste of Thorns (The Firestone Academy #3)

Chapter Forty-Seven

B riony

I wake up the Sunday before the next trial with a mighty big headache and my two best friends in my bed. When I untangle myself from the covers and crawl towards the end of the bed, jiggling the mattress as I do, both Fly and Clare groan in unison.

That wine may have been expensive, but it was also as potent as the stars.

When I find my feet – which takes me way more attempts than usual – the entire room spins like a merry-go-round and for one harrowing second I think I’m going to vomit all over my lovely new carpet.

My friends obviously don’t feel much better.

“Urgh, I think I’m dying,” Fly groans from the bed and Clare tells him to shush.

“I’ll go find us some water and some painkillers. I’ll be back soon,” I promise, needing to lean against the wall on my way out of the room so I don’t face-plant. The stairs are not fun, and I resort to sitting on the steps and bumping my way down on my backside.

At the bottom, I find Thorne, arms crossed over his body, an unamused look on his face.

“What are you doing?” he asks me like I’m a naughty child and have been caught messing around.

“Beaufort poisoned us with wine,” I explain, holding my finger up to my lips in hope he might lower his stupidly loud voice.

Instead of being outraged on my behalf, he asks, “How much did you drink?”

“Two bottles.”

Thorne peers up towards the heavens and shakes his head with disappointment.

“Come on,” he says, “follow me.”

“Actually,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around the bannister and leaning my head against it, “I think I’m going to stay here for just a minute.”

“Because?”

“It’s a nice place to sit,” I grimace.

Thorne shakes his head and then stomps off. I close my eyes and wait for another bout of nausea to pass. When I open them again, Thorne is back and he has a big glass of water in his hand. He rests it on the floor in front of me.

“Drink.”

“I can’t. It’ll make me vomit.”

Thorne’s brows descend over his dark eyes which meet mine with determination. “Drink!”

I huff and, with a trembling hand, lift the water to my mouth and take the teeniest of sips, barely wetting my lips.

“More,” he commands.

“I can’t.”

“You can. It will make you feel better.”

“I bet you’ve never been hungover,” I mumble, forcing several gulpfuls of water down my throat.

“No, I haven’t because I’ve never been foolish enough to drink that much.”

“I bet you have. You’re just a lot bigger and it would take more to affect you.”

“Keep drinking,” he instructs, ignoring me.

I glare up at him and tip back the glass.

“Better?” he asks me when I’m done.

“A little,” I confess, although my stomach is still churning.

“Want some breakfast?”

“I promised the others I’d go scavenging for food and water.”

“Better come with me, then.”

He watches me clambering to my feet, shaking his head as I sway, and leads the way down to the kitchen. Several times he has to stop and let me catch up with him because my limbs aren’t moving as quickly or with as much coordination as they usually do.

“This is very irresponsible,” he says, “you’re a mommy now.”

“Huh?”

“The dragon in the woods.” His lips twitch.

“Thorne Cadieux, I’m seriously hungover and my brain has been addled with alcohol, but was that a joke?”

“I wouldn’t joke about such things.” He smiles properly this time. It smoothes all the hard lines on his face, makes him even more handsome than he already was.

And, stars, that has my nauseous stomach fluttering.

“I like it when you smile, Grumps,” I tell him.

“Grumps?” he repeats, taking a step back away from me in alarm.

“Yes, it’s what I’m going to call you from now on,” I tease, deciding in the moment.

“I don’t like it,” he says.

I shrug. “Smile more, and I’ll consider changing it.”

“You truly are insufferable, Briony Storm. Maybe I’ll just call you brat.”

I shrug a second time. “I’m pretty sure Beaufort has called me that numerous times. Dray calls me Kitten for a reason I do not fully understand.”

“Because he’s insane.”

“Probably. My sister used to call me Nini.” I smile.

“Nini,” he says, testing the name out.

“I gather she couldn’t pronounce my name properly when she was little and it just stuck. What was your nickname as a kid?” I ask before realizing my mistake. Thorne never talks about his past or his family. It must be painful and here I am opening up those wounds. “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

“It’s okay,” he says, swallowing. “My mom used to call me Chip.” I tilt my head. Thorne does not look like a Chip. He smiles again. “Short for Chipmunk on account of my seriously chubby cheeks.”

“You had chubby cheeks?” I say, not quite believing him.

“I used to.”

“I bet you were adorable.”

“Am I not adorable anymore, Nini?”

“I think you are, Grumps.” He laughs, and the sound is so unfamiliar it takes me by surprise for a minute. I think it even surprises him and I can’t help laughing myself, although the action makes my head hurt and I moan, rubbing at my temples.

“Do not make me laugh, or I may end up projectile vomiting in your direction.”

“Better get some food in you,” he says, walking into the kitchen. “Do you think you can handle some eggs?” I groan. “They’re meant to help. Not that I’d know,” he adds, smugly.

“I’ll give them a try, although …”

“Although?”

“I’ve heard about these things called pancakes …”

“My mom used to get the cook to make those for me whenever I was poorly.”

I shake my head. “Cook?”

He doesn’t respond, pulling out a frying-pan from the cupboard and then eggs and flour from the larder. “She was a kind woman, taught me how to cook. I used to hide out in the kitchen whenever …” He trails off but I know what he was going to say.

I lean my hip against the counter. The lightness from a moment ago has left his eyes.

“What was she like, your mom?” I ask softly.

He cracks an egg against the side of a bowl and pulls it open with his thumbs, the gloop inside slopping into the bowl. It reminds me of that night Blaze hatched onto my bedroom floor.

“Funny,” he says, then adds with a frown, “when she had the chance. Clever, talented, and determined. You remind me of her, actually. But mostly, she was kind. I don’t remember her ever raising her voice to me or saying an unkind word. Mostly, she tried to keep me protected.”

“She sounds very special.” My mom died the day I was born.

I never knew her. The only things I had of her were the fleeting bits of information from my sister’s fading memory and one worn photograph.

For a long time, it seemed like the worst punishment in the world.

But now I’m not so sure. Thorne has had it worse.

Knowing his mother, loving his mother, and then losing her.

Thorne tips flour into the bowl, a cloud of it rising up into the air, and then beats it with a spoon.

“I think my mom would have liked you, Nini.” The way he says that old nickname has the nausea dissipating and the magic singing in my body instead. “I think she’d probably have hated Beaufort, though.”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“An unintentional asshole. His heart’s in the right place.”

“Yeah,” I say, “he has potential.”

Thorne chuckles again and that warmth glows right out to my fingertips. I want to make him happy, to lift all the darkness from his shoulders.

Next he adds milk to the mixture, mixing it around until it’s a dense yellow liquid. He lights the stove with a click of his fingers, melting butter into the pan, the smell making my stomach rumble, and then he pours the mixture in afterwards, the batter sizzling fiercely.

“Nini,” he says, as the batter cooks. “Are you sure you want to go through with this plan? Because I will kill Bardin for you if you want.”

“You heard Fox, it’s too dangerous.”

“Fox doesn’t know the full extent of my powers,” he says darkly.

“And risk banishment?” I say. “Again?”

“I’d do it for you.”

“But I want you around, Grumps. Whether you like it or not.”

“I like it,” he says. “I like it a lot.”

He takes a hold of the frying-pan handle and tosses the pancake upwards. It spins 180 degrees and then lands flat back into the pan.

I clap my hands and he does a little bow that makes me giggle again.

Then he’s sliding the pancake onto a plate and starting the process all over again.

“Can I try?” I ask, pointing to the pancake.

“You really do have no patience.”

“I can’t help it!”

“You need to add syrup.” He points towards a tall bottle on the counter. “Go ahead.”

I drizzle the sweet-smelling syrup over the pancake, then tear a piece off and stuff it into my mouth, my fingertips sticky. It’s good, really good. I moan in appreciation.

Then I stand back and watch him cook me another.

It’s funny. I’ve known these men only a handful of months and already I’m finding it hard to imagine a life without them.

I wonder, is that the biggest danger of all?