Page 18 of Sold Bullied Mate

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.

Chapter 12 - Kira

Dorian shifts in his seat and glances up at me, alternating between wolfing down his food and looking like he’s trying to slow himself down.

“There’s a lot more,” I offer, a blush crawling up my cheeks at the look she gives me. “I just mean, if you want seconds.”

“I will,” he says, reaching for his drink again. After a long sip, he sets his glass down, looks at his food, clears his throat. I realize that, since he lives alone, he’s probably used to eating alone. “So, have you always liked cooking?”

I bite my tongue for a second. There’s no way for us to skate around the reality of what happened, so I just tackle it head-on.

“No,” I say, slowly. “I started cooking when I went to the Grayhide pack. I couldn’t really afford anything—I was working custodial staff at this motel in town—so I started experimenting with what I had. Growing my own vegetables and herbs, trying to make something that tasted good with what little I could afford.”

To my surprise, Dorian is nodding, something almost near regret on his face.

“I checked out cookbooks from the library, learned more about the basics from cooking shows on cable. Then, I was able to get the hotel to move me to the kitchen. That’s when—”

I cut off, thinking about the day Jarred came in for a meal, the moment his eyes landed on me. The door to the kitchen had swung open, revealing me, pan in my hand, and I’d glanced up, locking gazes with him.

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