Page 84 of Toxic Temptation
That should satisfy me. Instead, it makes me want to punch something. I don’t know what I want from her; I just know it’s not this.
She moves toward the bedroom, giving me a wide berth, but I step into her path. I didn’t stay awake until three in the morning for a half-assed conversation.
“Move, Kovan. I’m not in the mood.” Her stomach growls, loud in the silence. Her cheeks flush pink.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You survived on coffee again.”
“None of your business.”
I stalk past her into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, I’m back in the bedroom with a plate of steaming udon noodles drowning in peanut sauce and vegetables. She’s sitting up in bed wearing those midnight blue pajamas that have starred in every fantasy I’ve had for the past three days and nights.
“Here.” I shove the plate into her hands before she can refuse. “Eat.”
She stares at the food, steam rising around her face. Then her eyes move to mine.
“And before you ask,” I add, “no, it’s not poisoned.”
Her eyes flash. “That makes me feel so much better.”
“Save the attitude until after you eat.”
I can see the war playing out on her face. Pride versus hunger. Hunger wins.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she says.
“I know. But I did it anyway.”
She loads up her fork and takes a bite. I watch her lips close around the fork and feel, for the first time in my life, jealous of the cutlery.
“God, I hate how good you are at cooking,” she mumbles through a full mouth. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“Summers in Russia with my brothers,” I reply, glancing away to focus my attention on a bare patch of wall. “We’d go toa mountain cabin in Siberia for weeks, just the three of us. No grocery stores, no modern appliances. We cooked what we caught.”
“Sounds idyllic. My summers were spent in cadaver labs.” She takes another bite. “Instead of pots and pans, I had scalpels and forceps.”
“And that was fun for you?”
She takes another mouthful of noodles. “I was with my father,” she says simply. As if that’s all the explanation that’s required.
We’re silent for a moment. For some reason, it makes me itch. I’ve never been one to fuss in long silences, but this one folds back in on itself, wraps around my throat, strangles me, bothers me.
“Luka misses you,” I say when I can’t stand it anymore. Vesper flinches, staring down at her plate. “He was asking about you tonight. He thinks you’re mad at him.”
“What?” Her eyes snap to mine. “Why would he think that?”
“Because he’s a sensitive kid who’s been trained to think everything that goes wrong is his fault, thanks to a mother who punishes him with absence and neglect.”
“That’s not what I’m doing!” Fire blazes in her voice. “Did you tell him that?”
“I tried. Not sure he believed me.”
Her fork clatters against the plate. She abandons it on the nightstand. “It wasn’t my choice to work back-to-back shifts. It’s Jeremy’s way of punishing me.”
“He’s the reason you’ve been MIA?”
“Who else?” She pushes back her hair. “Though it suited me fine, considering what happened last time we tried talking.”
Time for an apology. The words stick in my throat, though. Stubborn, always stubborn. It’s my stubbornness that’ll be the death of me.
