Page 117 of Cerulean Truth
James raised an eyebrow. “That was a joke.”
I rolled my eyes. “Color meshocked.”
James snorted, and for a moment, I thought I detected a hint of a smile.
“You really think I need a bodyguard?” I asked, trying to mask the fear seeping into my voice.
“I don’t actually. You’re one of the strongest people I know, but we haven’t been training long enough for you to defend yourself the same way I could. Plus, your translation is nowhere near desirable. If you translate during a bubble, even by accident, it could kill you. Wouldn’t want to take that risk.”
My jaw dropped.
"What?" he asked, as if it was the most normal thing ever for him to compliment me.
"You believe me to be strong?" Disbelief rang in every word.
James frowned. “Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”
I let out a laugh without humor. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because earlier today you gave me the biggest crap ever about drowning in self-pity.”
He wasn’t fazed by my calling him out. If anything, he seemed rather pleased I was still seething about it.
“Because I expect more from you,” he stated plainly.
My eyes narrowed. "Excuse me? I think all things considered, I’m doing pretty well. I believe most people would probably struggle even more, given the same parameters and situation," I retorted sharply.
Again, James wasn’t fazed by my bitter tone, all he did was shrug. “I hold you to different standards.”
I snorted. “Which standards are those?”
He looked up, his gaze clashing with my own, his voice low. “Mine.”
And just like that, my anger evaporated. Because for all his big talk and arrogance, what he just said was that he considered me an equal in every way, which was the highest praise I had ever received. And I liked that. A lot.
THIRTY
JAMES
There were other options available besides throwing Emma over my shoulder and forcing her to spend the night in my loft so I could keep an eye on her. But by the time I’d alerted the Maumars of the breach, none of them seemed acceptable. She would never be as safe as she was with me. So that’s where she would be, even against her will. I could live with her being angry at me, maybe even hating me. I could not live with her being in danger. Again.
So now she was in my loft, filling up the entire space with her annoyingly enticing perfume and sitting all comfortable on my couch as if she owned the place. Which, for some elusive reason, I seemed to rather enjoy.
“Do you have something to eat?” she suddenly asked.
“What would you like?” I responded, relieved she changed the subject to something less tense.
“I would love a steak, but at this point, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
I looked up in surprise. I wasn’t a great chef but there wasonedish I made to perfection.
"Your wish is my command, milady," I joked, strolling into the kitchen and flicking on the oven to a low temperature.
She followed me closely, her brow furrowing. "You’re cooking it? Not…translating it?”
I shrugged. “I had to learn how to make it in order to translate it. Now, the process just soothes me or something.”
She nodded, but a sense of worry crept into her features. “You’re cooking a steak in the oven?”
“I’m just preheating the steak in the oven,” I clarified, retrieving two gorgeous pieces of Wagyu meat from the fridge and draping a pat of butter over each.
