Page 78 of Blood Oath
Gods. He’s so damn warm standing so close to me, and suddenly I’m having trouble thinking clearly, with these two looking at me like I’m the only dinner they want. But my lips are tingling from where they touched Bael, and suddenly I have to think about anything besides the fact that I just had his warm, bare skin against mine.
Not for the first time, I’m irritated at my inability to stomach physical contact. I don’t enjoy being like this—the terror of feeling skin against mine, the familiar paralyzing sensation creeping up my spine and wrapping around my throat until I can’t breathe. But even if I logically know that touching someone else isn’t the end of the world, my body doesn’t get the memo.
I’m a testament to how strong conditioning can be.
Even if I want to try touching them…I don’t know how.
Baelfire sees the battle on my face and backs off immediately, smiling reassuringly as he opens the very overstocked fridge. “So, pork is a no. Are you good with cheese? Do you like pasta?”
I didn’t expect him to drop the subject. The fact that Crypt says nothing about it either is oddly comforting—as if despite the fact that they refuse to leave me alone, they aren’t going to pry into anything that makes me genuinely uncomfortable.
They’re not pushing me.
I watch Baelfire dice and sauté garlic, prepare other vegetables, and move through the kitchen with ease. I would offer to help, but I’ve never cooked a day in my life and even though I’m trying to hide it, the exhaustion from my recent episode is weighing on me.
Silas finishes his phone call and moves into the kitchen, focus trained on me. Something is different about the way he studies me, almost as if he knows something I don’t and he enjoys it. That has me slipping back into a poker face in case he actually has figured something out about who and what I really am.
“Is Frost’s tongue stuck to a frozen pole or something? What’s taking him so long?” Bael asks, carefully plating a pile of cheesy pasta food that actually makes my stomach growl. The shifter hears that and grins at me. “Bon appétit, Boo.”
“He’ll arrive any moment,” Silas replies, finally looking away from me as he and Baelfire get their own food and we move to the dining room.
Everett walks in a moment later, snowflakes dusted on the shoulders of his dark, photoshoot-worthy winter clothes and lingering on his skin, since it’s not warm enough to melt them. The professor’s gaze barely flits to me with an undertone of sheer boredom before he begins dishing up his own food.
Maybe he’s annoyed with me for openly “flirting” with him at every chance even though he never agreed to help me make the others jealous. Or maybe he’s just tired of putting up with my antics around him because he’s dropped any semblance of enjoying my attention in front of the others.
I usually choose to be amused whenever people don’t like me. It happens often, and there’s something morbidly entertaining about rubbing someone else the wrong way.
But for some reason, the idea of him genuinely disliking me is…unpleasant.
Baelfire has been watching my face and his glare snaps to the ice elemental as a snarl builds in his throat. “You’re not even going to fucking greet your own keeper? What the hell is wrong with you? You’re the only one she likes and you’re hurting her feelings, so get your head out of your frozen ass and?—”
“Drop it,” I cut in firmly. “My feelings are fine.”
“Don’t fucking tell me you’re fine,” he snaps. “I just saw you wince.”
I did? Oops.
Since it’s clear Baelfire is getting shifter-level angry, I offer him a distraction as I twirl pasta around my fork. “Maybe I was just reacting to the sizzling hot meat buffet in front of me. And I’m not talking about the pork chops.”
That does the trick. He fumbles his own fork, blinking at me. “Did you just…flirt?”
The others are also staring. Crypt didn’t get food—he never does, since apparently he just eats dreams—but he looks positively delighted with this new development. Silas arches a brow at me.
“I promised one day of the real me. Don’t get used to it.” I take a bite.
Everett sits down on my side of the table, several seats down, presumably so we won’t have to look at each other. He clearly doesn’t want to be here…but then why the fuck did he create this snowstorm and show up? Did they bribe him? I’m genuinely confused about his part in this forced group getaway.
As we eat, Crypt props his feet up on the table, lounging with his seat tipped back. When pulls out a lighter and cigarette, Everett shoots him a dirty look.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“Let’s test that theory.” The incubus lights one and draws deeply from it, blowing the smoke in Everett’s direction. “Oh, look. Yes, I can.”
The elemental’s eyes narrow, and a thick sheet of ice suddenly crackles beneath Crypt’s leaning chair, making it slip and sending him tumbling. But the Nightmare Prince vanishes into Limbo before the dining chair even hits the ground.
Silas rolls his eyes and uses basic magic to cast a protective charm over his food. It’s something a lot of casters do, ensuring their food is perfectly safe…like from poisoning, for example. Seems excessive, but that just further proves he truly has paranoia.
Baelfire snorts, catching my attention. “So. Growing up with humans, did you have shit like this happen at dinner? Neurotic fae, vanishing psychopaths, PMSing popsicles?”
