Page 30 of Bitten & Burned
5 Ebry, Year 810
The manor was waking.
Soft thuds overhead, a door closing somewhere down the hall, the hiss and click of the library lamps warming to life. I’d heard it all before—many times—but tonight it sounded different. Less like the start of a visit, more like the start of my life here.
Fig sat in my lap, tail flicking toward the door as if he knew who might appear first. I smoothed my skirts, pretending I was ready for conversation. I wasn’t. Not yet.
Being here for a few nights at a time was easy—you could float in and out, a welcome disruption. But living here would mean finding a place in the structure they’d already built, and I wasn’t sure where I fit.
Fig stretched and hopped down, heading for the door with an expectant meow. My stomach answered for me with a growl. The kitchen, then.
I tied my hair back into a loose bun, splashed water on myface, and followed him out into the corridor. The hush of the day was giving way to the low hum of voices and footsteps as the others stirred.
The scent of baking bread and something faintly spiced drifted toward me as I rounded the corner. Anton was in the kitchen.
I could smell everything: Coffee, rich and dark. Cherries, sugar, caramel. My mouth watered. Then, finally, on the tail end of it all, another scent I sucked greedily into my nose. They all meshed together until I couldn’t tell what made my mouth water more.
Tuberose. Sandalwood. Vanilla.
Anton.
I lingered in the doorway and peered inside. He was there—sleeves rolled up past his elbows, skin appearing golden in the lamplight. His arms, strong and supple, were gripping a rolling pin as he coaxed a sheet of puff pastry into submission.
Anton was wearing his usual: a stark white cotton shirt, unbuttoned to his breastbone, dark trousers, tailored precisely to fit in such a way that one couldn’t help but stare. And today, he had on an apron over the whole lot, accentuating his narrow waist.
In short, he was a gorgeous man. The sort that Thalia and I would have spotted and fanned ourselves over. The sort who never noticed someone like me, and yet,hestill seemed to.
As far as I knew, Anton was turned the youngest out of all the vampires of the coven, at age twenty-one. But he was the second eldest, after Cassian.
With a surname like Mercier, I had to assume he came from wine country; likely outside of Sol, closer to Euraline and the Emerald Sea.
He hummed an old tune under his breath. “Come on now…” he murmured. “Behave for me.” He smiled as the dough stuck to the pin and his fingers anyway.
He glanced up, as if now sensing me in the doorway. Hissmile widened into a grin. “Good evening,mon chou. So glad to finally see you.”
“You saw me last night, Anton,” I reminded him, trying not to blush.
“Yes, but I saw you with everyone else, Darling. You know I like a little one-on-one with my favorite witch.”
“Not so much a witch these days,” I grumbled.
“Oh, I am certain you will figure something out,ma p’tite.Come now, you must be famished. Don’t worry, I have just the thing.”
He reached for a towel, gesturing with one floury hand towards a stool just across from him before he began wiping them. “Do you like cherries? I madechaussons aux cerises. Just for you, I suppose I should have asked Vael if you prefer another fruit, but the sweet and sour cherries made me think of you…” He paused. “You do like cherries, don’t you, Rowena?”
“I do,” I replied, realizing I had yet to answer him. I was still staring at his hands. “Peaches are my absolute favorite, but I do love cherries.”
“Peaches, you say? I must remember that.” He seemed to notice the way I was looking at him because he smiled in that pompous way he had, preening slightly even as he washed at the sink. Over exaggerating the motions of rubbing on soap and rinsing. Drying. He didn’t bother unrolling his sleeves before placing a plate in front of me.
Tiny pastries, puffed beautifully, with varying red and burgundy cherries peeking out. “I used Montmorency and Raniers,” he said softly, his voice low and barely above a whisper. “One is sour, one is sweet. Like you.”
“How do you know I’m sweet?” I asked, bringing my eyes up to his, trying and failing not to get lost in the deep blue. “I feel mostly sour.”
His brows softened slightly, and he let his chin rest in one of his hands, elbow braced on the table. “Because, you may notrealize it, but there are hints of sweetness. That’s what makes for a delectable pastry, you know. The right ratio of sweetness to sour. You can’t have too much of one, or it overpowers. You want both.”
He picked one of the pastries from the plate, holding it out to me. “Have a bite. Tell me what you think.”
I burned. Not in my wound, but deeper. Not at all unpleasantly.
