Page 28 of Bitten & Burned
He nodded once. I glanced around the room, not seeing Dmitri anywhere. He must have gone.
I didn’t have long to think about it, though, because Anton had come back from the kitchen. “Your tea is still steeping, but get started on these, and I’ll be back with your tea.”
He left in front of me a tray of pastries that looked so decadent, I couldn’t choose which ones I wanted to eat. “Anton!” I called after him. “Anton, I can’t eat all this!”
“Just eat what you want, and leave the rest.”
“No, you misunderstand, I willtryto eat all of this, and I shouldn’t.”
But he was gone. I glanced at the empty doorway, hoping Dmitri would come back in—but he didn’t.
Of course, he didn’t. Dmitri never waited for permission.
Somewhere out there, he was trying to do what I couldn’t.
Trying to find the piece of this that wouldn’t bend—and making itbend.
I slept badly. Not because of pain or discomfort or anything other than the decision they were all expecting me to make. I’d try to sleep, but I’d end up dreaming of knives, flying toward me, and I had to duck, but I couldn’t move.
Didn’t take a dream analyst expert to decipher the meaning of that one, I supposed.
By the time I pulled myself out of bed, it was well past noon, and Fig was meowing impatiently at me, clearly hungry and expecting breakfast.
“Alright, alright,” I acquiesced. I rose and pulled on the robe I’d unpacked the night before. I tied it around my waist as Fig played at my feet.
I made my way to the kitchen mostly by smell. Fresh coffee. Dark, earthy, and tangy enough to make my mouth water. I wasn’t a huge coffee drinker, but I could make an exception, right?
I pushed the swinging door and nearly jumped back.
Quil—looking as if he hadn’t slept in days— was leaning over the counter in the center island. Same clothes as yesterday, except now his long, wild hair was pulled back and tied tightly behind his head. As if that was the only thing tethering him to the world.
Something felt different. He wasn’t the same Quil Ashborne I’d seen the night before. I might not have recognized him if I hadn’t truly looked at him.
His hands weren’t clenched this time. They just lay flat on the counter, palms spread, as if he’d already fought the fight and given up on winning it.
“Sit,” he said without looking at me. I sniffed, wrapping my robe tighter around me as Fig flitted around the floor without a care in the world.
I moved slowly over to the counter, where a bench resided. I was taking my time, not planning to make any suddenmovements, when he said it again. “Sit.” He hit the ’t’ a little too hard this time.
“Good morning to you, too,” I quipped.
Nothing. No response. Just the same dead stare into the steaming coffee cup that sat in front of him.
I crossed to the farthest stool away from him, putting the wooden countertop between us. I climbed onto the stool. “Are you waiting for someone?”
For the first time, he turned to look at me. His head tilted, slowly as if it weighed too much to move. His dark eyes flicked over me, from my rumpled hair to my bare feet. No smirk. No hiss. Just that dead stare of his that tended to get me nervous in all the wrong ways.
“You’re staying?” He asked, his tone flat.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I replied.
“No,” he said firmly. “You’re. Staying.”
So not a question. A command. Well fuck that.
“I. Haven’t. Decided. Yet.” I hit the ’t’ a little too hard as well.
He didn’t reply, simply stared at me.
