Page 47 of The Guardian's Curse

She wanted to speak and purge all this ugliness, but there was such simple joy in the music. The ink on the page outlined a conversation of chords and phrases that required no uncomfortable emotions, no hidden truths. It was simple and pure.

They played without speaking, page after page, melody after melody. When they finished the lengthy Debussy suite, she drew a breath to speak, but he simply folded the pages, put it aside, and opened another folio. Schubert this time, one of his favorites. He spoke only to murmur “D flat” when she missed a key change.

Halfway through their third suite, the antique doorbell rang. She froze. “It’s so late. Are you expecting Paris?”

“Answer it,” he replied. When she got up to answer the door, he continued to play, a quiet flurry of minor chords that sounded like a maelstrom.

With her heart thrumming, she peeked through the peephole to see a woman in a green Home Eats t-shirt. If he had ordered walking comfort food, she was going to kill him. Or get Paris to do it. She creaked the door open, ready to send the heavyset woman away.

“I have an order for Shayna,” the woman said.

“Shoshanna?”

“Sure,” she said, handing over a large paper bag. “It’s paid up. Thanks for your order. Don’t forget to rate us five stars.”

“But I—” she trailed off as the woman disappeared down the long drive. Didn’t order anything.

Peeking inside the heavy paper bag revealed an assortment of cardboard carry-out boxes. She frowned and locked the door. As she turned, Alistair was drifting into the kitchen.

“Did you order this?” she asked. He didn’t answer, but instead uncorked a bottle of wine and poured a glass. “You don’t eat. What’s all this?”

In a wave of cool air that smelled faintly of soap and clean laundry, he brushed past her to unpack the bag. “I didn’t know what you might like.”

She took out one of the boxes and opened it to find a piece of red velvet cake. Transit was unkind, judging by the flattened rosettes of cream cheese frosting. Warmth spread in her chest.

“It’s ruined,” he growled. “They’d better send another.”

She chuckled and swiped a finger through the dense frosting smeared on the lid. “It’s not ruined.” She licked her finger clean and sighed at the rich, sweet taste.

Before she could plunge a plastic fork into the blood-red cake, he was there in a blur, snatching it away. In his hand was one of the gleaming silver forks she had polished the other day. “You will not eat cake with plastic in my house.”

With a smile, she took the fork and took a small bite of the red velvet cake. His posture was stiff, leaning forward in anticipation. Beneath the dark hood, she could only see shadow and the faint gleam of his eyes.

“It’s good,” she said. Before she could take another bite, he took the box and handed her another. “Hey...”

“You should taste them all,” he said gruffly. “I’d like to know which one is the best.”

She watched him unpack another half dozen boxes. By the time he was done, there were eight takeout boxes strewn across the counter, along with an assortment of plasticware and napkins from different restaurants. “You do realize I don’t have a vampire’s metabolism.”

“I have a refrigerator,” he replied primly.

The next box held a thick slice of tiramisu covered in a dusting of chocolate shavings. Coffee and chocolate billowed out in an overpowering wave of rich sweetness. She took a bite and swooned. “Oh, my God,” she murmured, leaning against the corner as she smiled. That was almost better than sex. He reached for the box, but she brandished the fork at him. “If you take this from me, I’ll put this fork in your eye, big boy.”

There was the tiniest chuffing sound from beneath the hood. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Alistair Thorne laughed.

His hand still waited expectantly, so she reluctantly ate another bite of the tiramisu and handed it over. The next box revealed a slice of cheesecake dripping with strawberries and freshly whipped cream. After a big bite, she followed it with a sip of the sweet white wine. Finally, she broke the silence, surveying the decadent spread. “Are you going to watch me eat all night?”

“There are worse ways to spend an evening,” he said. He paced at the end of the kitchen island, then finally planted his stone-like hands on the counter. “I should not have put my hands on you. You startled me, but I let my anger overtake me. I’m very sorry.”

The memory of his teeth at her neck sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s all right. To be fair, I probably shouldn’t have used witchcraft on you to make you talk to me.”

“You caused me no real harm,” he said. “I was angry and I fully intended to frighten you. To hurt you, even. I should be better than that, but clearly I am not. I give you my word that I will never do that again.”

“You know you didn’t have to order dessert from every restaurant in town to say that,” she said.

He stepped back from the counter. Just one stride felt like a mile, a chasm yawning open between them. “It was too much. I thought you would like it.”

“No, no!” she blurted, stepping around the counter toward him. “God, I ruin everything. This is so sweet,” she said. “Literally. I love this. I just meant that you don’t have to earn the right to talk to me or apologize. Does that make sense?”

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