Page 7 of Valkyrie Confused

“Told you—I’m a night owl. Stay? Tell me about yourself? I’d like to know who’ll be bossing me around, and you can’t still be sleepy after a twelve-hour nap.”

THREE

PAN

I don’t wantScarlett to go to sleep. Don’t want her out of my sight. Something about her calls to me. She’s intriguing. Definitelymorethan she seems. I felt her power rush through my body when she touched my arm, and the sensation hasn’t relented since, when I’m in her presence. Something ancient burrows behind those hazel eyes, and from the total lack of deception I sense from her, she probably has no clue.

What is she?

It’s that question that’s kept me up. The same question that brought me to the kitchen. Cooking and baking are like therapy for me. Watching things simmer soothes my soul, and kneading dough is as good for working out frustration as punching assholes is. Well, metaphorical assholes. I treat actual assholes with a gentler touch.

I’d treat Scarlett—

With respect. Unless she asked me not to.

I listen to her melodic voice reluctantly tell me there’s not much to know, really, but that is a total lie. I’d pick it up in how she flicks her gaze from me to the stove and back again, even if I didn’t sense the mistruth with my powers.

“Ah come on,” I say. “You left the States to come live and write in Middle-of-Nowhere, Greece? There has to be a story there. Did you live in a place more rural than this? Or a monastery? Are you running from the Mafia?”

Her laugh breaks through the stuffy façade she’s been wearing for the past few minutes. “Nope. Not the Mafia, no.”

Interesting phrasing. “But youarerunning from something. Or wouldn’t abossconfess to that?”

She bites her lips together and ducks her head before raising her chin and meeting my gaze. “I overdid thatbossstuff, huh?”

“Just a little bit.” I ache to tuck the curl that has escaped her messy bun behind her ear. Ache to touch her again. Electricity zaps through me every time I do, sizzling at my pleasure centers and making my heart roar in my chest. There’s something about her… “You changed the subject,” I say.

She nods. “I’m not exactly running from something, unless you count the memories. My divorce was finalized last month, on the same day my latest book hit the New York Times Bestseller List. I took the settlement and deposited the down-payment on this placebecauseit’s in the middle of nowhere. I can get away from city life—”

“I’ll say.”

“—get in touch with my inner self, or whatever, and focus on writing the next great American novel. Only, you know, with sex in it.”

I tilt my head, letting the change in her tone sink in. “You don’t really believe that,” I say.

“What? That Kato Trikala is the place for me?”

“No. That what you write is good.”

She scowls. “What I writeisgood. Millions of people around the world agree with me.”

I raise my hands, palms out. To show her I mean no harm? To soothe her temper? “I don’t doubt that at all. You do, though. I heard it in how you said you’re going to write the next great American novel. It lacked conviction. Why?”

She sucks air through her teeth and follows it with a piece of bacon, which she swallows barely chewed. “People don’t take romance seriously.”

I dip some bread into the yolk of my fried egg. “Is that why it sells like crazy?” I ask before biting into it. “Men refuse to admit that they like romance books, because… Toxic masculinity? Romance is viewed as soft and therefore feminine, so they shun it and let their hearts grow bitter.” Or read it in secret, like a certain Berserker I used to know.

Thinking of Arnlaug always leads to a tangled mess of emotions I don’t care to unravel, so I shoo away his memory and focus on Scarlett, who’s gaping at me.

“What?” I ask.

One corner of her mouth tugs upward. “I didn’t expect to have that kind of conversation here. Or at this hour. Or with a guy. It’s refreshing.”

You’re refreshing.But I don’t say it. Instead, I eat some more. I’m stuffed, but food tastes better ever since I moved here, and I’m not one for suppressing my desires.

“Did you really make all of this yourself”—she tilts her chin toward the table—“or was that a lie, to impress your new employer?”

She didn’t call herself my boss, this time. Good. “It’s all me,” I say.

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