Page 32 of Bitten & Burned
Afterward, I sipped at my tea while Anton cleaned the pan.
“You don’t have to cook for me, you know,” I said carefully, my tone measured and calm.
“No. But I want to. I like to. You should have nice things, Rowena.”
“I do,” I insisted.
“Yes, but you should have more. You should have all you desire. Food is something I can offer. Would you take that away from me? Besides, no one here has a sweet tooth like you and me. I can’t prepare desserts for only myself. Do you know how utterly sad that appears?”
I laughed. “Okay, well, it does seem silly of me to complain… when everything you prepare is delectable.”
He hummed. “See, I like that as well.”
“What?” I asked.
“The way you praise me. It’s nice. Don’t you agree?”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. What exactly was he asking?
I couldn’t detect an undercurrent of anything salacious, but something inside me made itfeelsalacious. I wondered if that was his intention.
“Everyone likes praise,” I replied, my voice clipped.
“Some more than others.” He turned, reaching for a bowl. “If you want to go explore, come back in a few hours, I’ll have fresh sourdough bread.”
I reached over to take one of the chaussons with me, and he smiled to himself, but he didn’t address me again. I heard him cooing at Fig, however. I assumed my cat had abandoned me in favor of the one with access to the pantry, so I was officially on my own as I ventured back out into the hall.
My next stop was Vael’s rooms, but there was no answer when I knocked. I had to assume he was likely in the library. So that’s where I went next.
I pushed open the heavy door to the library with my shoulder. This room had its own hush—Cassian’s wards overlaid with the faint thrum of Adellis, god of memory, as if each book kept more than ink inside. I was expecting to see Vael there amongst the stacks of books, giving lectures to the ghosts contained in the spines.
But it wasn’t Vael who turned when I cracked open the door.
It was Quil.
He was seated on the floor near the far window. He had one leg stretched out, one bent at the knee. Practiced to quickly leave if threatened. Balanced on his knee was an open book. When he looked up at me with those dark eyes, I felt like I was interrupting something, like I was the intruder.
I froze, unsure if I should leave again or continue on my way in. “Oh…” I began. “I’m sorry, I was just?—”
“Come in if you’re coming in,” he said, voice low and monotone. He closed the book. Gently. Which surprised me more than anything else.
He didn’t speak again, clearly waiting for something. For me to leave? To say something?
I wondered, stupidly, if he’d stayed out of this room for my benefit. If it had benefited him while I was only a guest. But since I wasn’t leaving, maybe he figured it didn’t matter if I found him here or not.
I opened my mouth to apologize again, maybe? I wasn’t sure, and he didn’t give me time to figure it out.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
He was rising to his feet, placing the book on a nearby table. His voice scraped low, rough around the edges as if he hadn’t used it in a while.
“Like what?” I asked, too softly.
He made a sound. Quiet. Humorless. It wasn’t a laugh, but it wasn’t anything else either. Too bitter and sharp. Not enough of anything else. He took a step closer. Stalked. Low and tight like a predator about to strike.
“Like you know why I’m here.”
His eyes carried fury. Unbridled rage.
