Page 38 of Never the Roses

His gaze snapped up, catching hers with smoldering intensity that took her aback. About to say something, he seemed to reconsider, shaking his head slightly, then saying, “I’d think aladyliving alone would be more careful of prettily wrapped gifts deposited on her doorstep.”

“Deposited by whom?” she asked in exasperation, covering the unexpected heat stirred by the sorcerer’s intent gaze. No sex in ages and now she seemed to think of nothing else. “I’m not easily found, and everyone knows not to bother me, besides.”

“I found you,” Stearanos said, pointing out the obvious even as it occurred to her.

“Yes, about that. Howdidyou find me?”

His sere face broke into that wolfish grin. “Trade secret.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.” She formed the dough into a loaf. “But you are unique in the world, Em. Just becauseyoucan do a thing doesn’t mean anyone else can.”

“Why, darling, what a lovely compliment. I had no idea of the level of your admiration.”

She snorted. “It’s wise to know one’s enemies.”

“True,” he acknowledged, saluting her with the blade. “To return to the point, sneaking a sweet young thing into your bed would be a fine way to get to you.”

“As if I can’t handle a harmless young poet.”

Shaking his head, he resumed chopping. “Ifthat’s all he is.”

“I’ve heard tell of your legendary paranoia. I’m not plagued with such anxieties.”

“No, your problem is overconfidence.”

Opening her mouth to deny it, she found she couldn’t. They knew far too much about each other for that. “Justifiable confidence,” she corrected. “Besides, Ihaven’ttaken him into my bed, not that it’s any of your business.”

“The boy is awfully handsy for one who’s been refused your bed,” Stearanos noted in a neutral tone. “And lipsy.”

“That’s not even a word.”

“Then I shall write it into a book and it will be.”

Tristan returned, bowls full of lettuce—torn up by the roots, she noted with a mental sigh—and a few strawberries, not nearly as many as Oneira knew had ripened. The smudge of red juice about Tristan’s lips spoke of the fate of the rest. He extended the bowl to her, then pulled it away as she reached for it, leaning in for a kiss. “My reward, first, my lady.”

With an audible sigh this time, and mostly to annoy Stearanos, who was far too interested in whether or not she’d bedded the pretty poet, she gave Tristan a kiss. His lips tasted of strawberries, confirming his illicit feast. He perched on his stool at the counter,telling of his travels when Stearanos questioned him, observing as she and the sorcerer compiled the soup. It was almost companionable, Stearanos recognizing her dried herbs for the most part, interested in testing the ones not native to his realm, and making such innovative suggestions to augment the concoction that she delegated the seasoning to him entirely.

Tristan seemed blissfully unaware that Stearanos was actually interrogating him, probing for signs that the poet wasn’t who he seemed, happily chattering on about all he’d seen and done. None of it suspicious or untoward. Oneira gave Stearanos the occasional blandly triumphant glance and he scowled back, unconvinced, their ongoing conversation entirely silent and perfectly clear.

Once the soup was simmering, Oneira washed her hands, bemused at how little time the preparation had taken with the extra pair of hands. She excused herself, to change her cup and make sure no blood had leaked through. By the time she returned, Stearanos had finished putting away the remainder of the supplies, easily discerning where most of it went. He only asked for input on a few items. If he’d straightened things in her cooler and on her shelves as he went, she considered it the price of his assistance. Besides, his quirks amused her, and order was always welcome. “You do know your way around a kitchen,” she observed.

He cocked a brow. “I’m not an idiot,” he replied, glancing at Tristan, who didn’t notice.

“Don’t you have servants still?” She knew he did.

“Of course, though some sleep on the job,” he answered with narrowed eyes and a hint of accusation. “But I find working with my hands soothing,” he added, almost a question. “It’s a welcome change from my usual work.”

“Yes.” She nodded, meeting his gaze, answering the question he hadn’t quite asked. “Healing, in a way.”

He let out a long breath, matching her nod. “Yes.”

“I’m careful of my hands,” Tristan put in, holding up his soft, elegant fingers. “The tools of my trade, as it were. I treat them like the treasures they are.”

Stearanos opened his mouth to say something scathing, no doubt, and Oneira jumped in. “Shall we have that tour of the garden?”

“I am in suspense of this promised tour,” Stearanos conceded, meaning it utterly, she knew, though Tristan gave him a perplexed look. “Lead on, lovely Lady Lira,” he added, grandly gesturing to the doorway to the garden.

When she gave him a fierce glare for his sarcasm, he only grinned, and—shocking her completely—playfully tugged at a strand of her hair.

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